ESSAYS  AND   POEMS  OF 
EMERSON 

»  * 

VM 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 

BY 
STUART  P.   SHERMAN 

PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH  IN  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 

"A  man  is  a  fagot  of  thunderbolts" 


NEW  YORK 
HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 


ufcolaciv^o 


COPYRIGHT  •  1921  -BY 
HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


PRINTED   IN   THE   U.S.A. 


11  All  young  persons  thirst  for  a  real  existence  for  an  object,  • —  for 
something  great  and  good  which  they  shall  do  with  their  heart." 

— Emerson's  Journals 

"They  shall  find  that  they  cannot  get  to  the  point  which  they  would 
reach  without  passing  over  that  highway  which  you  have  made." 

— Emerson's  Journals 


743201 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION vii 

I.    Life  and  times viii 

II.   Character  of  his  influence xii 

III.  Religion   xvii 

IV.  Philosophy xxi 

OflfV^  Morals xxiv 

VI.   Politics xxix    - 

VII.   Literature  and  art xxxvi 

ESSAYS 
OF  THE  SOURCES  "OF  POWER 

-L^ature. (f) 

HY The  Over-Soul 

iriVHistory 

IvYExperienceX «-h 

\K 

OF  MORALS  AND  ARTS 

VI  .'Spiritual  Laws  .  . 

VII.l/Self-Reliancev.,. 

VILL/Compensation  A . 

.    IX.   Heroism  y.  ..... 

,  *£_£.   Mcndohip    .+.  .  . 

t  AXM Manners. * >¥fe 

[I. 

^ 


^ 


"VsXHVPolitics.' 

tall.1 

^* 


r\ 

OF  MEN  IN  ACTION 

XV.^The  American  Scholar^. 

XVI.VMan  the  Reformer  ^. 

XVII.   The  Conservative  .^ „_. 

XVIII.   The  Transcendentalist>S 1 342 

t'X'VT'V         TV  T i.  _ : A  T'Virt     dl,~_4.;^.   ^  "  4^U^ 

s^E*8 


XXI.  iThe  Poet  >L 
XXIIVThe  Young  American.^. 


vi  CONTENTS 


POEMS 

PAGE 

rtr 445 

Good-Bye 445 

The  Rhodora 446 

The  Humble-Bee 447 

Each  and  All *fr 448 

The  Problem 450 

Forbearance rt~ 452 

From:  Wood  Notes 452 

I  Monadnoc 457 

V^ble i" 468 

The  Snow-Storm 469 

?v  Brahma rH 470 

Sphinx 470 

Visit 474 

ie  World-Soul 475 

J.  W 478 

/{Jjamatreya ^r. 479 

Threnody .' 481 

Ode  to  Beauty 489 

*  Qfrve  All  to  Love 491 

initial,  Daemonic,  and  Celestial  Love 493 

•  The  Apology 504 

.     Merlin .  . 505 

*  Bacchus 509 

*  Grace 511 

:     Merops 511 

\/Hymn  Sung  at  the  Completion  of  the  Concord  Monu- 

<  Vvtnent ^ 512 

Ode  Inscribed  to  W.  H.  Channing 512 

Freedom 515 

'--   Ode  Sung  in  the  Town  Hall 516 

Boston  Hymn 517 

Voluntaries 520 

Musketaquid 521 

The  Test.  <. *• 523 

*  Forerunners.  .  524 


y>  n 

n&  o 


INTRODUCTION 

SOME  books,  like  some  persons,  convey  to  us  all  that  they 
will  ever  have  to  give  at  a  single  sitting.  Others  hold  our 
attention  profitably  through  two  or  three  encounters.  But 
the  books  to  be  shipwrecked  with,  the  great  books  into 
which  rich  and  substantial  lives  have  been  distilled  and 
packed  —  the  Dialogues  of  Plato,  Montaigne's  Essays,  Bos- 
well's  Johnson,  the  Essays  and  Journals  of  Emerson  —  these 
are  to  be  lived  with  and  returned  to  and  made  the  com 
panions  of  hours  and  days  and  moods  as  various  as  those  in 
which  they  were  written.  You  cannot  discover  what  Emer 
son  has  been  to  others  or  what  he  may  be  to  you  by  any 
cursory  turning  of  his  pages.  Still  less  can  you  "get  him 
up"  by  studying  any  summary  of  his  philosophical  system. 
Philosophers  tell  us  indeed  that  his  philosophical  system  is 
hopelessly  antiquated,  and  fancy  that  they  have  disposed 
of  him.  But  Emerson  himself  remarked:  "I  need  hardly 
{jay  to  anyone  acquainted  with  my  thoughts  that  I  have  no 
system/'  The  value  of  his  thoughts  depends  scarcely  more 
upon  the  metaphysical  filaments  among  them  than  the  value 
of  a  string  of  alternating  beads  of  gold  and  pearl  depends 
upon  the  string.  The  figure  has  a  momentary  illustrative 
force  but  is  very  inadequate.  Emerson  lives,  still  speaks 
pertinently  of  our  current  affairs,  and  tomorrow  we  shall 
still  find  him  commenting  with  equal  pertinency  on  tomor 
row's  affairs.  To  know  him  is  not  mere  knowledge.  It  is 
an  experience;  for  he  is  a  dynamic  personality,  addressing 


the  ^llL-l^ff  pmnfimi^  tVip  'imfl.giTifl.f.iQDT.Tin  less  than  thfiLJP- 
jelloct^  His  valu^  escapes  the  merely  intellectual  appraiser. 
Analysis  cannot  deal  properly  with  his  pungent  wit  —  it 
must  be  savored;  nor  with  the  impetus  that  he  gives  to  the 
will  —  it'  must  be  felt;  nor  with  the  purgation  and  serene 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

rapture  of  the  mind  towards  which  his  noble  discipline 
tends — this  rapture  must  be  attained  as  a  state  of  grace 
by  imitation  of  those  who  have  attained  it,  by  lifelong  inter 
course  with  men  whose  tone  and  habit  of  life  is  noble. 


Since  we  are  to  consider  him  primarily  as  an  unspent 
force  in  our  own  times,  what  it  most  concerns  us  to  inquire 
about  him  is  what  he  can  do  for  us.  If  we  approach  him 
with  that  question,  we  need  not  tarry  long  over  bio 
graphical  details,  interesting  and  rewarding  as  they  may  be 
to  the  student  of  literary  history  ^Ve  pretty  well  sum  up 
his  external  career  when  we  say  that  he  jyas  a  Hew  Eng- 
lander  of  Boston,  where  he  was  born  in  1S03,  and  of  Con 
cord,  where  he  died  in  1882Jl,./aft%eT  a""sludious  life  of  irre 
proachable  purity,  dignity,  and  simplicity  becoming  the 
descendant  of  several  generations  of  New  England  gentle 
men  and  scholars.  His  formal  education  he  received  at  the 
Boston  Latin  School  and  at  Harvard  College,  from  which 
he  was  graduated  in  1821,  with  a  well-formed  bias  towards 
an  intellectual  life.  The  son  of  a  Unitarian  minister,  he 
inherited  an  ethical  impulse  which  directed  him  to  the 
Harvard  Divinity  School  in  1825-6.  In  182^  he  was  ap 
pointed  pastor  of  Jhe  Second  Unitarian  Church  of  Boston. 
He  was  married  in  the  same  year  to  Ellen  Tucker,  who 
died  two  years  later,  leaving  him  a  sweet  and  unfading 
memory  of  her  fragile  loveliness.  After  he  had  served  his 
parish  acceptably  for  three  years,  he  felt  obliged  to  an 
nounce,  in  18,32,  that  he  was  no  longer  able  to  administer 
the  sacrament  of  communion  in,_the  general  sense  of  his  con 
gregation,  and  resigned  his  charge.  In  December  of  Jh.'if. 
year  he  visited  Europe  and  made  acquaintance  with  three 
or  four  men  whose  residence  in  Europe  constituted  for  him 
the  chief  reason  for  going  abroad:  Jjan4or,in  Italy,  Carlgje 
at  Craigenputtock,  and^Colericlge  and  Wordswortli  ia  Eng 
land.  He  returned  to  America  m  October  1833,  and  in  the 
Trowing  year  settled  permanently  in  Concord.  In  1835Jie 
married  his  second  wife,  Lyclia  Jackson.  For  three  or 
four  years  he  preached  with  some  regularity  in  various  pul- 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

pits,  but  he  gradually  abandoned  the  church  for  the  lyceum, 
which  invited  him  as  far  west  as  Wisconsin  and  Illinois.  He 
made  a  second  visit  to  England  in  1S4S.  He  was  an  active 
participant  in  the  anti-slavery  movement.  But,  for  the 
most  part,  barring  his  winter  lecturing  tours  and  an  occa 
sional  excursion  to  deliver  a  commencement  address  or  a 
Phi  Beta  Kappa  oration,  he  lived  placidly  in  Concord,  read 
ing,  meditating,  writing,  editing  the  short-lived  Transcen- 
dental  Dial,  looking  amusedly  askance  upon  the^  Brook 
Farm  experiment,  and  walking  and  talking  with  his 
famous  fellow-villagers,,  the  Alcotts,  the  Hawthornes, 
Margaret  Fuller,  Ellery  Channing,  and  Thoreau. 
.  What  ferment  of  radical  thought  went  on  beneath  the  de 
corous  exterior  of  that  quiet  scholar's  life  we  know  with 
remarkable  fullness  and  accuracy.  From  early  boyhood 
Emerson  kept  a  journal  —  a  habit,  in  his  case,  denoting  a 
mind  disposed  to  make  unusual  exactions  of  the  "hypocritic 
Days."  At  first,  he  is  much  occupied  with  what  he  has  read 
or  proposes  to  read;  but  presently  his  note-book  becomes  a 
kind  of  storehouse  for  mellowing  the  fruits  of  his  daily  medi 
tations,  and  an  experimental  garden  for  planting  the  seeds 
of  new  thoughts  gathered  on  his  intellectual  adventures. 
The  Journals,  now  published  in  twelve  volumes,  give  us  an 
invaluable  commentary  upon  the  long-familiar,  essays,  and 
they  enrich  greatly  our  sense  of  the  personality  behind 
them.  Especially  they  illuminate  the  turning  point  in 
Emerson's  life,  when  he  abandoned  the  pulpit  and  became  a 
wholly  free  thinker  and  speaker.  With  their  help,  one  peiz, 
ceives  that  for  years  before  the  open  break,  the  inner  eman 
cipation  iiD'  fTl  ipnrT  pfrirppfTTfi  rr  One  observes  the  young 
thinker  expanding  be  von  d  the  formulaajrf  his  parish,  reach 
ing  out  towards  the  life  of  his  nation,  feeling  his  way  into  the 
higher  spirit  of  his__tirnes,  daily  becoming  more  eager  to  ex 
change  messages  and  compare  visions  with  the  leaders  of 
his  generation. 

It  is  a  vulgar  error  of  our  day  to  think  of  Emerson  and 
his  friends  as  living  in  a  rude  and  mentally  poverty-stricken 
era.  In  his  formative  period,  say  from  1820  to  1832, 
society  around  the  Golden  Gate  and  along  the  southern 


x  INTRODUCTION 

margin  of  Lake  Michigan  was  indeed  in  a  somewhat  more 
primitive  state  than  at  present.  But  in  compensation,  such 
civilized  society  as  the  country  possessed  was  concentrated 
'in  a  smaller  geographical  area.  To  reside  in  Boston  or  New 
York  was  not  then,  as  now,  to  live  on  the  rim  but  at  the 
center  of  population,  within  reach  of  the  molding  pressure 
of  all  the  great  Americans  of  one's  time.  The  "moment," 
furthermore,  was  peculiarly  rich  in  the  presence  of  eminent 
men  who  had  been  shaped  by  the  Revolution,  and  in  the 
presence  of  men  who  were  to  become  eminent  in  the  move 
ment  which  led  to  the  Civil  War.  To  a  young  man  of  Emer 
son's  quality,  the  period  of  the  Adamses,  Jefferson,  Ran 
dolph,  and  Jackson,  the  period  of  Webster,  Clay,  Calhoun, 
Everett,  and  Garrison,  was  not  a  dull  period,  not  a  dead 
interval,  but  a  most  stirring  and  exciting  time  between  two 
epoch-making  crises,  with  the  thunder  of  a  political  Niagara 
at  one's  back,  and  the  roar  of  wild  rapids  ahead.  The 
air  was  full  of  promise  and  of  peril  and  of  conflicting  meas 
ures  for  avoiding  the  one  and  fulfilling  the  other. 

Politically-minded  men,  the  Jacksons,  the  Clays,  the  Cal- 
houns,  brought  to  the  problems  of  "the  hour  political  solu 
tions.  But  the  more  sensitive  spirits  among  the  younger 
generation  in  New  England  had  already  experienced  a  cer 
tain  reaction  against  the  political  faith  and  enthusiasms  of 
their  fathers.  Already  they  .heard  the  ominous  creaking  of 
democratic  machinery  under  the  manipulation  of  unskilful 
and  unscrupulous  hands.  To  them  it  began  to  appear  that" 
Tthe  next  great  improvement  in  the  condition  of  society  must 
!  depend  less  upon  the  alteration  of  laws  and  institutions 
than  upon  the  intellectual  and  moral  regeneration  of  men. 
UIhe  new  movement  was  genuinely  Puritan  by  its  inwardness, 
by  its  earnest  passion  for  cleansing  the  inside  of  the  cup, 
and  by  its  protest  against  external  power,s_wKich  thwarted 
or  retarded  the  efforts  of  the  individual  soul  to  move  for 
ward  and  upward  by  light  from  within.  Looking  back  in 
1844  over  the  multifarious  projects  for  "the  salvation  of  the 
world"  unfolded  by  reformers  in  his  part  of  the  country, 
Emerson  remarks:  'There  was  in  all  the  practical  activities 
of  New  England,  for  the  last  quarter  of  a  century,  a  grad- 


INTRODUCTION 

ual  withdrawal  of  tender  consciences  from  the  social  o 

is  6bservable"^throughbutr~tFe  contest  be 


tween"  mechanical  ancTspiritual  methods,  but  with  a  steady 
tendency  of  the  thoughtful  and  virtuous  to  a  deeper  belief 


Those  who  place  their  reliance  on  spiritual  facts  have 
always  been  thought  a  little  queer  and  rather  dangerous  by 
those  who  do  not.    Nor  can  it  be  denied  that  the  radical 
protestantism  of  the  Puritans,  which  Emerson  inherited, 
has  contained  from  the  time  of  Wycliff  an  anarchical  germ, 
a  latent  suspicion  of  church  and  state,  a  tendency  towards 
"coming  out,"  till  one  shall  stand  alone  in  utter  freedom 
and  count  for  one  and  nothing  more^It  is  hardly  possible    j 
to  exaggerate  the  individualism  wiiich   characterized   the  / 
movement  in  New  England.    "For  Emerson  above  all,  the     , 
Jfvery  rapture  of  the  time  rose  from  its  challenge  to  a  per- 
W  fectly'independent,  a  perfectly  fearless,  scrutiny  and  testing 
of  ""received   values   in   every   field  —  religion,   philosophy, 
morals,  politics,  literature  and  art.  ff 

Emerson  was  preserved  from  the  fanaticism  of  a  secession 
from  "the  social  organization"  partly  by  his  culture.     A 
moral  reformation  which  undertakes  to  investigate  the  bases 
of  morals  will  develop  and  transform  itself  into  an  intellec 
tual  renascence  as  soon  as  those  who  are  conducting  it  per 
ceive  that  everything  in  heaven  and  earth  has  a  bearing  on  % 
moral  questions.     Emerson  discovered  early  that  the  first 
sj;ep  towards  thinking  greatly  arid  freely  on  moral  matters 
is   to    consult    the    world's   accumulated   wisdom.     Hasty. 
writers  speak  of  his  "jaunty"  attitude  towards  the  past.    If   . 
he  is  jaiJnty  about  the  past,  ills  because  he  is  very  familiar 
with  it.  I  What  impresses  the  thoughtful  student  of  his  jour-   fej 
nals  is  lis  steady  effort  to  hold  himself  and  his  contempo-   I 
raries  under  the  searching  cross-lights  of  human  experience. 
He  reads  Plato,  Cicero,  Hafiz,  Confucius,  Buddha,  Mahomet, 
Dante,   Montaigne,   Milton,   Voltaire,  Kant,   Goethe,   Na 
poleon,   Coleridge,   Carlyle,  bccause_that,  he  finds,  is  the 
effective  way  to  set  his  own  intelligence  free,  and  because 
freedom,  he  finds,  means  ability  to  move  at  ease  and  as  an 
equa].  among  such  minds  as  these. 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

But  Emerson  was  also  preserved  from  excessive  individ 
ualism  by  a  passion  which,  properly  elevated  and  directed, 
may  be  a  young  man's  guardian  angel,  the  passion  of  am- 
bhioBv-  "All  young  persons,"  he  observes,  "thirst  for  a  real 
existence  for  a  real  object,  —  for  something  great  and  good 
which  they  shall  do  with  their  heart.  Meanwhile  they  all 
pack  gloves,  or  keep  books,  or  travel,  or  draw  indentures,  or 
cajole  old  women."  By  habitual  imaginative  association 
with  great  men,  he  had  assimilated  their  thoughts  and  vir 
tues,  and  had  accustomed  himself  to  look  forward  with  an 
almost  Miltonic  assurance  to  playing  a  part  above  the 
ordinary  in  the  life  of  his  country.  At  the  age  of  twenty- 
one  he  is 'sketching  a  series  of  papers  on  the  improvement 
of  the  nation.  He  thinks  the  demand  for  a  moral  education 
the  best  sign  of  the  times,  and  deems  the  exploration  of  the 
field  a  task  fit  for  a  new  Columbus.  He  queries  whether  it 
were  not  an  "heroic  adventure"  for  him  to  "insist  on  being 
a  popular  speaker."  And  with  perceptible  elation 'at  the 
prospect  he  concludes:  'To  address  a  great  nation  risen 
from  the  dust  and  sitting  in  absolute  judgment  on  the 
merits  of  men,  ready  to  hear  if  any  one  offers  good  counsel, 
may  rouse  the  ambition  and  exercise  the  judgment  of  a 
man.", 

ii 

There  is  some  disposition  at  present  to  look  upon  Emer 
son's  ambition  as  extravagant  and  to  regard  his  work  as  a 
closed  chapter^  in_ the, intellectual  life  of  America.  It  is  even 
asserted  that  he  never  much  affected  the  thinking  of  his 
countrymen.  Says  a  recent  writer,  "What  one  notices  about 
him  chiefly  is  his  lack  of  influence  upon  fne  maiii  stream 
of  American  thought,  such  as  it  is.  lie  had  admirers  and 
even  worshippers,  bul  no  apprentices?^  BuiTthis  judgment 
will  not  stand  examination.  Emerson,  had jtlioreau  for  an 
apprentice ^_  and  between  1liem  they  established  relations 
with  the  natural  world,  which  successive  poet-naturalists 
have  maintained  and  broadened  to  the  dimensions  of  a 
national  tradition.  lie  had  Whitman  for  a  disnple;  and  a 
large  part  of  what  passes  with  us  as  poetry  today  is  ulti* 


INTRODUCTION  * 'xiii 

mately  traceable  to  their  inspiration.  He  left  the  imprint 
of  his  spirit  upon  Lowell,  who  said,  "There  is  no  man  living 
to  whom,  as  a  writer,  so  many  of  us  feel  and  thankfully 
acknowledge  so  great  an  indebtedness  for  ennobling  im 
pulses."  Whatever  is  finely  academic,  highbred,  and  dis 
tinguished  in  our  critical  literature  today  has  felt  the  in- 
fluence^of  Emerson.  ''To  him,"  according  to  Lowell,  "more 
than  to  all  otheF"causes  together  did  the  young  martyrs 
of  our  civil  war  owe  the  sustaining  strength  of  thoughtful 
heroism  that  is  so  touching  in  every  record  of  their  lives." 
By  his  aid  innumerable  clergymen  have  fo^djl-^y  to 
translate  the  message  of  ancient  scriptures  into  theTanguage 
of  modern  men.  Every  American  who  pretends  to  know 
anything  whatever  of  the  American  classics  has  at  one  time 
or  another  read  the  "Essays";  and  the  "idealism"  which  is 
thought  to  be  characteristic  of  the  American' people  is  most 
readily  formulated  in  a  half  dozen  of  his  "familiar  quota 
tions,"  which  every  one  knows,  whether  he  has  read  a  line 
of  Emerson  or  not.  Directly  and  indirectly  Emerson  prob-"l 
ablvdid  as  _much  as  any  other  writer  in  our  history  to  j 
establish  what  we  mean  by  "a  good  American";  and  that,  I 
in  the  long  run,  is  the  most  important  sort  of  influence  that  -' 
can  be  exerted  by  any  writer  in  any  country? 

That  his  influence  abroad  has  been  considerable,  may  be 
briefly  suggested  by  the  reminder  that  he  touched  deeply 
such  various  men  as  Carlyle.  Matthew  Arnold.  Nietzsche. 
and  M.  Maeterlinck.  Wnen  Arnold  "visited  America  in 
JgEffij  he  lectured  on  Emerson^  Qn_whom  thirty  years  earlier 
he  had  written  a  sonnet  of  ardent  admiration  and  homage. 
The  lecture,  the  fruit  of  his  ripest  critical  reflection,  was 
not  altogether  satisfactory  to  his  American  audience.  It 
impressed  them  as  quite  inadequately  appreciative  of  their 
chief  literary  luminary.  For  Arnold  very  firmly  declared  A 
that  Emerson  is  not  to  be  ranked  witB  the  great  poets,  nor 
with  the  great  writers  of  prose,  nor  with  the  great  mak^fs— - -> 
ofjpnilosophical  systems.  These  limitations  of  Emerson's 
power  are  commonly  quoted  as  if  detraction  were  the  main 
burden  of  Arnold's  message.  As  a  matter  of  fact  they  are 
preliminary  to  his  deliberate  and  remarkable  declaration 

* 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

that  in  his  judgment  Emerson's  Essays  are  the  most  im 
portant  work  done  in  prose  in  our  language  during  the  nine 
teenth  century.  This  is  high'  praise  from  an  exacting  critic 
who  was  little  given  to  the  use  of  superlatives  in  any  case, 
least  of  all  in  the  case  of  American  authors. 

For  what  merit  does  Emerson  deserve  this  preeminent 
place  ?  Because,  says  Arnold,  in  a  phrase  full  of  significance, 
because  "he  is  the  friend  andaider_  of  those  who  would  live 
in  the  spirit."  Let  us  unfolcTITTTtWl^implications  of 
tTiis  phrase  and  make  its  application  more  precise.  Impor 
tant  as  Emerson  may  have  been  t^^^omig  EnglisHmeh  'in* 
tnlTlirst  half  of  the  last  century,  he  was  still  more  important 
to  young  Americans.  Helpful  as  he  may  "become  to  Euro 
pean  minds,  he  will  always  remain  peculiarly  the  friend  and 
aider  of  those  who  would  live  in  the  spirit  amid  an  environ 
ment  which,  as  is  generally  thought,  tends  powerfully  to 
confirm  on  the  one  hand  the  hard  and  merely  practical 
genius  of  the  Yankee  and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  narrow 
and  inflexible  righteousness  of  the  merely  traditional  Puri 
tan,  the  Puritan  who  feels  no  longer  the  urgency  and  pro- 
force  of  new  moral  life  within  him.  To  the  pos 
terity  of  Franklin  and  Edwards,  Emerson  'is  the  destined 
and  appropriate  counsellor  because  he  brings  them  undi- 
minished  the  vital  force  of  their  great  traditions,  wrhile  at 
the  same  time  he  emancipates  them  from  the  "clead  hand," 
the  cramping  and  lifeless  part  of  their  past.  To  children 
of  the  new  world,  Emerson  is  a  particularly  inspiring  friend, 
because  with  deep  indigenous  voice  ]ie_.  frees  them  from  un 
manly  fo£trup_f  their  elder^.  lifts  from  their  minds  the  oveir 
of  Europe,  liberates  the  powers  and  faith  of 


__the_J.ndividual  man  and  makes  him  at  home  in  his  own  time 
and  placet"" 

"^A  great  part  of  our  lives,  as  we  all  recognize  in  what  we 
call  our  educational  period,  is  occupied  with  learning  how  to 
do  and  t^_bewhatjothers  have  been  and  have  done  before  us. 
We  corne~aBreast  ofour  predecessors  by  imitating  them, 
and  are  grateful  to  the  masters  when  they  reveal  to  us  their 
secrets,  to  the  older  men  when  they  give  us  the  benefit  of 
their  experience.  But  presently  we  discover  that  the  world 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

is  changing  around  us,  and  that  the  secrets  of  the  masters 
and  the  experience  of  our  elders  do  not  wholly  suffice  — 
much  though  they  aid  us  —  to  establish  us  effectively  in  our 
younger  world.  We  discover  within  us  needs,  aspirations, 
powers  of  which  tRe  generation  that  educated  us  seems  un- 
E  It  appears  to  be  indifferent, 


sympathetic,  or  .even  actively  hostile.  We  perceive  gradu 
ally  or  with  successive  shocks  of  surprise  that  many  things 
which  our  fathers  declared  were  true  and  satisfactory  are 
not  at  all  satisfactory,  are  by  no  means  true,  for  us.  Then  it 
dawns  upon  us,  perhaps  as  an  exhilarating  opportunity,  per 
haps  as  a  grave  and  sobering  necessity,  that  in  a  little  while 
we  ourselves  shall  be  the  elders,  the  responsible  generation. 
Our  salvation  in  the  day  when  we  take  command  will  de 
pend,  we  are  constrained  AoJ^elieye,  upon  our  disentangle-' 
ment  from  the  lumber  of  heirlooms  and  hereditary  devices, 
and  upon  the  discovery  and  freejsvise  use  of  our  own  fac 
ulties.  The  vital  part  of  education  begmsTri  the  hour  when 
consciousness  of  self-dependence  breaks"  ~trp  on  the  mind. 
That  is  the  hour  Jor  Emerson.  «  —  ~^ 

He  appeals  to  unfolding  minds  because.  he  is  profoundly 
in  sympathy  with  the  modern  spirit.  By  this  phrase  wo 
mean  primarily  the  disposition  to  accept  nofhing  on  autlior- 
'•ty  but  to  bring  all  reports  to  the  test  of  experience.  The 
modern  spirit  is  first  of  all  a  free  spirit,  open  on  all  sides  to/, 
the  influx  of  truth.  But  freedom  is  not  its  only  character 
istic.  The  modern  spirit  is  marked  further  by  an  active 
curiosity  which  grows  by  what  it  feeds  upon,  and  goes  ever 
inquiring  for  fresher  and  sounder  information,  not  content 
till  it  has  the  best  information  to  be  had  anywhere.  But 
since  it  seeks  the  best,  it  is,  by  necessity,  also  a  critical 
spirit,  constantly  sifting,  discriminating,  rejecting,  and  iioW^ 
ing  fast  that  which  is  good,  only  till  that  which  is  better  is 
within  reach.  This  endless  quest,  when  it  becomes  central 
in  a  life,  requires  labor,  requires  pain,  requires  a  measure 
of  courage;  and  so  the  modern  spirit,  with  its  other  vir 
tues  is  an  heroic  ^spirit.  As  a  reward  for  difficulties  gal 
lantly  undertaken,  the  gods  bestow  on  the.  modern  spirit  a 
kind  of  eternal  youth  with  unfailing  powers  of  recuperation 

•\ 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

and  growth.  This  spirit — free,  actively  curious,  upward 
striving,  critical,  courageous/ and  self-renewing  —  Emerson 
ri; •]  sly  possesses;  and  that  is  why  he  is  so  happily  qualified 
fcpFHTTT  rm i naftllQf  pf  youth  in  the  period  of  intellectual 

^    'emancipation. 

«^*" There  are  many  prophets  abroad  in  the  land  today, 
offering  themselves  as  emancipators,  who  have  only  very 
partially  comprehended  their  task.  By  the  incompleteness 
of  their  message  they  bring  the  modern  spirit  itself  into 
disrepute.  They  understand  and  declare  that  the  modern 

M    spirit  is  f  ry  p^andjmrious .    They  fail  to  recognize  that  it  is 
also  critical  and  upward-striving.    When  the  well-born  soul 
liscards  wroIcT"~T?lothes,"    it    seeks    instinctively    for    fresh 
raiment;  but  these  Adamites  would  persuade  it  to  rejoice 
in  nakedness  and  seek  no  further.    They  know  that  man  is 
an  animal;    but  it   escapes  their  notice  that  man  is  an 
animal  constituted  and  destined  by  his  nature  to  make  pil 
grimages  in  search  for  a  shrine,  and  to  worship,  till  he  finds 
it,  the  Unknown  God.    Because  they  understand  so  ill  the 
needs  and  cravings  of  man,  they  go  about  eagerly  hurrying 
him  from  a  predicament  into  a  disaster.     They  conceive 
rthat  they  have  properly  performed  the  emancipative  func- 
\  tion  when  they  have  cut  the  young  generation  loose  from 
the  old  moorings,  and  set  it  adrift  at  the  mercy  of  wind 
'vjrnd  tide. 

It  is  these  partial  liberators  who  produce  in  our  young 
people  that  false  and  bewildering  sense  of  illumination,  so 
eloquently  described  by  John  Henry  Newman.  Says  that 
penetrating  analyst  of  modern  libertinism :  "When  the  mind 
throws  off  as  so  much  prejudice  what  it  has  hitherto  held, 
and,  as  if  waking  from  a  dream,  begins  to  realize  to  its 
imagination  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  law  and  the 
transgression  of  law,  that  sin  is  a  phantom,  and  punishment 
a  bugbear,  that  it  is  free  to  sin,  free  to  enjoy  the  world 
and  the  flesh;  and  still  further,  when  it  does  enjoy  them, 
and  reflects  that  it  may  think  and  hold  just  what  it  will, 
that  'the  world  is  all  before  it  where  to  choose/  and  what 
system  to  build  up  as  its  own  private  persuasion;  when 
this  torrent  of  wilful  thoughts  rushes  over  and  inundates 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

it,  who  will  deny  that  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge, 
or  what  the  mind  takes  for  knowledge,  has  made  it  one  of 
the  gods,  with  a  sense  of  expansion  and  elevation,  —  an  in 
toxication  in  reality,  still,  so  far  as  the  subjective  state  of 
the  mind  goes,  an  illumination?" 

The  true  emancipator,  the  man  who  has  entered  fully 
into  the  modern  spirit,  is  always  a  reconstructionist.  The 
enlargement  of  mind  which  he  offers  is  always,  to  modify 
slightly  the  words  of  Newman,  an  enlargement  not  of  tumult 
and  intoxication,  but  of  clearer  vision  and  fruitful  peace. 
In  our  Civil  War  slaves  set  free  by  proclamation  flung  up 
their  caps  and  shouted  with  a  vague  joy.  But  shortly 
afterwards,  we  are  told,  many  of  them  returned  to  their 
old  masters  and  sought  re-employment  at  their  former 
tasks.  So  little  was  their  undirected  freedom  worth.  The* 
true  liberator  strikes  off  the  old  shackles  but  immediately 
he  suggests  new  service,  a  fuller  use  of  our  powers.  He 
cuts  us  loose  from  the  old  moorings;  but  then  he  comes 
aboard  like  a  good  pilot,  and  while  we  trim  our  sails,  he 
takes  the  wheel  and  lays  our  course  for  a  fresh  voyage.  His 
message  when  he  leaves  us  is  not,  "Henceforth  be  master- 
less,"  but  "Bear  thou  henceforth  the  sceptre  of  thine  own 
control  through  life  and  the  passion  of  life." 

in         "" 

Religious  emancipation  as  conducted  by  Emerson  makes 
a  marfnot  less  but  more  religious.  It  frees  the  restless  mod 
ern  soul  from  ancient  sectarian  fetters,  from  ceremonial 
that  has  become  empty,  and  from  the  litter  of  meaningless 
creeds.  But  straightway  it  re-establishes  the  soul  in  a  new 
doctrine  of  "continuous  revelation",  and  in  works  and  con- 
iid  proper  to  those  who  have  been  freshly,  inspired.  There 
is  an  element  that  looks  like  mystical  experience  underlying 
this  fundamental  part  of  Emerson's  religious  teaching.  But 
since  mysticism  constitutes  a  difficulty  and  an  obstacle  to 
the  average  modern  mind,  let  us  reduce  as  much  as  possible 
the  irrational  or  superrational  element.  Let  us  explain 
what  we  can. 

Emerson's  belief  in  continuous  revelation  is  clearly  ascrib- 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

jible  in  large  measure  to  the  breadth  of  his  spiritual  culture. 
I  Throughout  his  life  he  was  a  Student  of  the  religions  of  the 
j   world.    With  free  and  open  mind  he  compared .  the^teachings 
\  of  Plato,  Confucius,  Jesus,  Buddha,  Mahomet,  seeking  "trie 
spirit  beneath  the  letter  transmitted  by  each.    This  com 
parison  did  not  bring  him  to  the  hasty  thinkeFs" conclusion 
that  the  Bible  of  Christians  is  an  uninspired  book  but  rather 
to  the  conclusion  that  all  the  bibles  are  inspired  books, 
further  he  pressed  his  studies  in  religion,  in  philosophy, 
poetry,  the  more  obvious  it  became  to  him  that  elevated 
thought  and  noble  emotion  are  not.  the  exclusive  endow 
ment  of. any  special  period  or  person  but  are  common  to 
the  highest  representatives  of  all  great  peoples  in  all  the 
great  ages. 

How  account  for  that  undeniable  and  really  very  inspirit 
ing  fact?  Emerson  explained  it  by  what  might  be  called 
the  law  o^tJie-c^fts^w^feiaa-x^spiritual  energy.  The  mortal 
forms,  momentarily  fixed  in  the  shape  of  Plato  or  Confucius, 
decay  and  are  dispersed,  yet  their  elemental  force,  as  modern 
science  teaches  us,  is  not  destroyed  but  resumed  and  con 
served  in  the  all-encompassing  energy  of  the  universe,  and 
is  recreated  forever  and  ever  in  new  shapes  of  men  ana 
things.  In  like  fashion,  as  it  appeared  to  Emerson,  the 
thought  and  feeling  of  men,  since  thought  and  feeling  are 
also  forms  of  energy,  must  be  resumed  and  conserved  in 
destructibly  in  the  general  reservoir  of  moral  energy,  the 
"over-soul,"  from  which  they  flow  again  into  individuals, 
generations,  races,  with  such  sustaining  recurrence  as  the 
vernal  sap  observes. 

The  vividness  of  his  belief  in  this  inflowing  power  may  be 
ascribed  to  certain  personal  experiences,  emotional  and 
exalting,  for  which  the  entire  discipline  of  his  life  had  pre 
pared  him.  From  his  youth  up  he  had  conversed  in  his 
reading  with  strong-souled  men,  with  the  saints,  heroes,  and 
sages.  He  had  meditated  on  their  counsels  not  occasionally 
but  daily,  persistently,  for  hours  together,  till  the  bounds 
between  their  minds  and  his  disappeared,  and  their  thoughts 
actually  became  his  thoughts  and  their  temper  his  temper. 
It  is  a  discipline  which  breaks  down  the  walls  of  personality 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

and  merges  the  individual  with  the  over-soul.  By  books,  he 
writes  in  his  journal  in  1824  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  "my 
memory  goes  back  to  a  past  immortality,  and  I  almost 
realize  the  perfection  of  a  spiritual  intercourse  which  gains 
all  the  good,  and  lacks  all  the  inconvenience  and  disgust 
of  close  society  of  imperfect  beings.  We  are  then  likest  to 
the  image  of  God,  for  in  this  grateful  rapidity  of  thought 
a  thousand  years  become  one  day." 

A  mind  thus  stored  and  sensitized  will  respond  now  and 
then  to  an  apparently  slight  stimulus  with  an  extraordinary 
excitement  and  something  in  the  nature  of  "vision"  and 
"illumination."  The  young  man  ^eads  in  quiet  solitude  one 
of  the  more  poetical  dialogues  of  Plato,  or  he  walks  in  flow 
ering  fields  communing  with  his  thoughts,  or  he  lifts  his 
head  from  his  sick-bed  at  sunrise  and  beholds  "the  spotless 
orange  light  of  the  morning  streaming  up  from  the  dark  hills 
into  the  wide  Universe."  Suddenly,  to  him  unaccountably, 
there  is  a  profound  stirring  of  his  emotional  deeps.  A  sense 
of  sublimity  fills  his  consciousness.  His  will  appears  to  him 
godlike,  invincible.  He  is  elate  with  benign  resolution.  In 
a  delighted  ecstasy  he  feels  streaming  through  his  being 
eternal  forces,  all  the  wisdom  and  all  the  virtues  that  have 
ever  been  in  the  world.  However  we  may  attempt  to  explain, 
or  to  explain  away,  his  sensations,  he  himself  is  incontro- 
vertibly  convinced  that  he  has  been  visifed  and  breathed 
upon  by  a  power-not-himself.  He  has  been  but  a  passive 
vessel  filled,  to  the  brim  by  an  inrush  of  energy  from  the 
..Over-Soul,,  from  the  circumfluent  seas  of  moral  power. 

Sjich  inspiration,  Emerson  holds,  is  natural  to  man.  It 
isproTJaljly  open  to  everyone  who  will  subject  himself  to  the 
requisite  preliminary  discipline  —  who  will  live  steadily 
with  such  thoughts  as  Emerson  entertained.  Jftecord  of 
these  visitations  one  may  find  here  and  there  in  the  Journals 
in  such  statements  as  this :  "I  am  surrounded  by  messengers 
of  Godjwho  send  me  credentmls  day  by  day"  —  statements 
whichlm  intelligent  reader  may  accept  as  substantially  true 
and  essentially  verifiable  by  the  method  just  indicated. 

This  personal  jmd  direct  rein i innsliip-jyhtftfr-hn  cultivated 
with  the" Over-Soul  had  a  two-fold  effect.  On  the  one  hand, 


xx  INTRODUCTION 

it  quite  indisposed  him  to  render  fl]|pgia.npp  to  intermediate 
Thus  he  declares  in  a  poem  of  1833,  "Self-Re- 


Henceforth,  please  God,  forever  I  forego 
The  yoke  of  men's  opinions.    I  will  be 
Light-hearted  as  a  bird,  and  live  with  God. 
I  find  him  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 
I  hear  continually  his  voice  therein. 


On  the  other  hand,  this  direct  relationship  with  the  source 
of  moral  power  made  him  joyfully  obedient  to  the  impulses 
of  what  he  at  various  times  designated  as  the  heavenly 
vision,  the  divine  necessity,  or  the  overlord  of  his  soul.  A 
certain  levity,  almost  a  frivolity,  which  he  exhibits  now' 
and  then  in  the  presence  of  creeds,  churches,  pious  organi 
zations,  is  actually  the  consequence  of  his  entire  reverence 
in  the  presence  of  every  unmistakable  manifestation  of 
spiritual  lifev  Like  his  friend  Carlyle,  he  feels  that  the 
religious  edifices  of  the  day_are_become  uninhabitable;  the 
religious  spirit  is  seeking 'a  new  "HouseT  rrReligion,"  he  re 
marks,  "does  not  seem  to  me  to  tend  now  to  a  cultus  as 
heretofore  but  to  a  heroic  life.  We  find  extreme  difficulty  in 
conceiving  any  church,  any  liturgy,  any  rite  that  would  be 
genuine." 

This  sounds  like  a  radical  utterance.  It  is  radical  with 
the  root  and  branch  thoroughness  of  Emerson's  inherited 
Puritanism,  a  vital  Puritanism  urgent  with  fresh  power, 
impatient  of  a  corrupted  tradition  and  a  conformity  that 
withholds  one  from  the  living  truth.  The  tendency  of  the 
traditional  religious  culture,  he  criticizes  as  indifferent  to 
aesthetic  development;  as  narrowly  and  incompletely  moral; 
and  as  averse  from  the  wide  reaches  of  living  truth  which 
are  open  to  the  modern  mind  in  the  domains  of  science.  He 
holds  that  the  founder  of  the  faith  in  which  most  of  his 
countrymen  were  bred  was  indeed  a  "pure  beam  of  truth," 
whose  ethical  utterances  cannot  be  overprized,  yet  that  he 
exhibited  a  "very  exclusive  and  partial  development  of  the 
moral  element.  ...  A  perfect  man  should  exhibit  all  the 
traits  of  humanity,  and  should  expressly  recognize  intd- 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

lectugf^ature.    [Italics  niine.]     Socrates  I  call  a  complete, 
universal  man." 

That  Emerson's  is  the  radicalism  of  a  conservative,  bent 
upon  holding  fast  that  which  is  good,  is  indicated  by  many 
other  references  to  the  character  and  teaching  of  Jesus,  to 
whom  he  returns  again  and  again  with  perceptions  quick 
ened  and  sharpened  by  his  secular  culture.    "How  strange," 
he  exclaims,  "that  Jesus  should  stand  at  the  head  of  history, 
I  the  first  character  of  the  world  without  doubt,  but  the  un- 
/  likeliest  of  all  men,  one  would  say,  to  take  such  a  rank  in 
/   the  world."    Approaching  the  subject  from  a  quite  different 
/    quarter,  he  says,  "I  think  the  true  poetry  which  mankind 
I     craves  is  that  Moral  Poem  of  which  Jesus  chanted  to  the 
ages  stanzas  so  celestial,  yet  only  stanzas."     And  finally 
from  still  another  angle:  "The  heart  of  Christianity  is  the 
^jieart  of  all  philosophy." 

IV 

Much  has  been  written  of  Emerson's  philosophical  in 
debtedness  to  Kant  and  his  German  followers,  and  to  Cole 
ridge  and  Carlyle  and  Madame  de  Stael,  who  were  interme- 
dkriesjbetween  the  German  and  the  New  England  trans- 
rendentalists.  It  is  not  in  my  power,  happily  it  is  not  much 
to  our  purpose,  to  enter  into  the  details  of  this  discussion. 
Briefly  speaking,  it  may  be  said  that  the  German  thinkers 
and  their  interpreters  by  their  combined  influence  did 
undoubtedly  strengthen  Emerson's  instinctive  reaction 
against  the  dry  and  in^ojmplete  ralimialism  of  the  eighteenth 
.  century. BI and  against  the  "Utilitarians  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  who  to  his  nostrils  brought  a  peculiarly  repug 
nant  odor  of  "profit  and  loss."  But  Emerson  was  no  sys 
tematic  student  of  metaphysics,  and  most  of  such  general 
impulses  as  he  was  capable  of  receiving'  from  the  German 
system-makers,  he  had  perhaps  encountered  in  Plato  and 
Berkeley  and  the  seventeenth  century  divines  before  he  had 
much  cultivated  his  German. ->_He  ultimately  made  his  way 
through  Goethe,  but  he  never  became  Intimately  attached 
to  him  or  even  quite  reconciled  to  him,  finding  him  and  his 
aesthetic  friends,  deficient  in  "moral  life." 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

What  is  still  more  to  the  point,  the  vital  features  of 
Emerson's  philosophy  are  due  less  immediately  to  his  read 
ing  than  to  that  religious  illumination  of  which  we  have 
already  spoken.  He  arrived  at  the  center  of  his  beliefs  by 
Jntuitiori._  From  the  mecHanical  conception  of  the  universe 
which  reduced  Carlyle  almost  to  despair,  Emerson  emanci 
pated  himself,  or  rather  he  perfected  his  emancipation,  by 
a  critical  examination  of  his  own  experience.  This  scrutiny 
disclosed  a  real  world,  the  world  of  things,  moved  by  physi 
cal  energies  in  accordance  with  the  laws  of  things.  But  it 
disclosed  also  an  equally  real  world;  Jiie  world  of  ideas, 
moved  by  moral  energies  in  accordance  with  the  laws,  per 
haps  less  clearly  understood,  of  ideas.  One  world  is  asso 
ciated  with  the  other  as  the  eye  is  associated  with  seeing; 
yet  seeing,  not  the  instrument  of  sight,  is  the  sovereign  mat 
ter.  An  important  continuator  of  the  Emersonian  influence 
in  our  times,  Professor  Irving  Babbitt,  takes  as  the  point  of 
departure  for  his  own  developments  these  lines  from  Emer 
son's  Ode  to  W.  H.  Channing: 

'    There  are  two  laws  discrete, 

'     Not  reconciled,  — 

'    Law  for  man,  and  law  for  thing; 
The  last  builds  town  and  fleet, 
But  it  runs  wild,  and  doth  the  man  unking. 


As  philosopher,  Emerson  conceives  it  his  chief  business 
to  explore  the  "law  for  man/'  to  formulate  it,  and  to  ob 
tain  recognition  of  it  as  the  supreme  authority  in  human 
|K  'relationships.    His  entire  effort  aims  .at  establishing  human 
i\lndependenc£and  a_human  mastership.    Man  liberates  him- 
*  ""self  arid  S^nges~'ser^  in  proportion  as  he 


obeys  the  "law  for  man"  and  learns  to  make  the  "law  for 
things"  s'erve  him.    In  thus  firmly  insisting  upon  a  radical 
|  distinction  between  the  two  parallel  planes  of  experience, 
/Emerson  is  in  accord  with  the  wisdom  of  the  ages  and  at 
I  variance  with  the  folly  of  the  times,  which  tended  to  ob- 
I  literate  distinctions  and,  surrendering  to  a  physical  fatalism, 
f  to  accept  the  law  for  things  as  also  the  law  for  man.    Those 
j  who  still  contend  for  the  identityof  the  two  laws,  like  to 
/  speak  of  their  view  as  "realistic.  yTTis  a  word  to  conjure 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

with.    Emerson's  view  will  prevail  against  theirs  only  when 
it  is  finally  established  as  more  realistic  than  theirs,  as  more 

accurately    and    adequately    descripitive  of  the    facts  of 

nature,  the  experience  of  men.  ^ — 

It  is  important  to  note  that  what^Emerson  contends  for 
as  the  realistic  view  is  the  "twoness"  of  the  universe.  He 
does  not  oppose  a  physical  monism  with  a  spiritual  monism 
but  with  a  fairly  clean-cut  dualism.  It  is  a  man  asserting 
the  equal  realness  but  radical  dissimilarity  of  things  arid 
ideas,  who  remarks  in  his  Journal,  "Realist  seems  the  true 
name  for  the  movement  party  among  our  Scholars  here. 
I  at  least  endeavor  to  make  the  exchange  evermore  of  a 
reality  for  a  name."  When  the  "solid  men"  of  his  day  • 
complain  that  his  way  of  thinking  neglects  the  fundamental 
facts,  he  replies  that  their  way  of  thinking  neglects  the 
hypaethral  facts,  but  that  his  way  of  thinking  takes  due 
cognizance  of  both:  "Turnpike  is  one  thing  and  blue  sky 
another."  "The  poet  complains  that  the  solid  men  leave  out-' 
the  sky."  This  is  the  sunny  mockery  of  one  who  was  both  a 
poet  and  a  solid  man.  Emerson  wove  a  net  for  casting  in 
fathomless  seas  and  brought  home  his  catches  by  ways  un 
known  to  the  fishermen;  but  this  did  not  prevent  his  rais 
ing  good  apples  in  his  Concord  orchard  and  taking  the 
customary  road  to  market. 

His  philosophical  emphasis  is,  however,  of  course  upon  the 
order  of  facts  most  likely  to  be  ignored  by  tho  "solid  men"; 
and  because  of  his  emphasis  upon  this  order  of  facts  we 
speak  of  him  as  an  idealist  and  as  a  great  fountain  of  Amer 
ican  idealism.    What  idealism  meant  to  him  is  expressed  in 
his   Journal  in  words   which   Moliere's   cook  might   have 
understood:  "We  are  idealists  whenever  we  prefer  an  idea, // 
to  a  sensation.  .    .    .     The  physical  sciences  are  only  well  | 
studied  when  they  are  explored  for  ideas.  .    .    .  The  book  ; 
is  always  dear  which  has  made  us  for  moments  idealists. 
That  which  can  dissipate  this  block  of  earth  into  shining 
ether  is  genius.    I  have  no  hatred  to  the  round  earth  and 
its  grey  mountains.     I  see  well  enough  the  sandhill  oppo 
site  my  window.     Their  phenomenal  being  I  no  more  dis 
pute  than  I  do  my  own.  .   .   .  Religion  makes  us  idealists. 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

Any  strong  passion  does.  The  best,  the  happiest  moments 
of  life,  are  these  delicious  awakenings  qf  the  higher  powers 
and  the  reverential  withdrawing  of  nature  before  its 
God.  .  .  .  We  are  all  aiming  to  be  idealists,  and  covet  the 
society  of  those  who  make  us  so,  as  tlje  sweet  singer,  the 
orator,  the  ideal  painter." 


It  is  commonly  said  that  Emerson's^ interest  in  morals  is 
hisjnheritance  from  the  Puritans.  In  this  connection  it  is 
interesting  to  find  him  in  .the  Journals  connecting  himself 
consciously  with  the  loftiest  Puritan  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  JpniT'MiItpn,  of  whom  he  writes:  "Milton  de 
scribes  himself  to  Diodati  as  enamored  of  moral  perfection. 
He  did  not  love  it  more  than  I."  Here  indeed  is  a  visible 
link  in  what  we  have  grown  accustomed  to  call  the  Puritan 
tradition.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  were  Emerson  and 
Milton  more**"ih  love  with  moral  perfection  than  Spenser, 
or  was  Spenser  more  in  love  with  it  than  Dante,  or  Dante 
than  Augustine,  or  Augustine  than  the  Emperor  Marcus 
Aurelius,  or  the  Emperor  than  Socrates?  There  is  a  great 
community  of  minds  enamored  of  moral  perfection.  It  is 
no  novel  passion  originating  in  New  England  or  among  the 
English  Puritans.  How  explain  the  antiquity  of  the  tradi 
tion?  Dante,  following  Aristotle,  explains  it  by  declaring 
that  "all  things,  by  an  intuition  of  their  own  nature,  seek 
"perfection."  Emerson  then,  rediscovered  what  Aristotle 
had  observed,  that  the  impulse  to  self-perfection  is  a  ten- 
.dency  in  the  constitution  of  man. 

Jtnj\meric.aj ,  the most  important  predecessor  of  Emerson 

in  this  rediscovery  was  a  free-thinking  man  of  the  world, 
entirely  out  of  sympathy  with  strait-laced  and  stiff-necked 
performers  of  barren  rites  and  observances.  I  refer  to  the 
greatest  liberalizing  force  in  ^ighteent^-cgnliary  America, 
Benjamin  Franklin.  Was  he  a  Puritan?  No  one  thinks  of 
Him  as  suck.'i^t  in  truth  he^iepresentg  the  normal  reaction 
of  a  radical  protestantism,  of  a  living  Puritanism,  to  an 
"Age  of  Enlightenment,"  By  the  courage  of  his  moral 
realism  he  prepares  the  wayTor^mersbif.  He,  too,  begins 

t 

I 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

his  independent  studies  after  a  revolt  against  ecclesiastical 
authority,  as  narrow  and  unrealistic.  The  course  of  his 
emancipation  is  set  forth  in  the  Autobiography,  where  he 
relates  his  disgust  at  a  sermon  on  the  great  text  in  Phil- 
lipians:  "Finally,  brethren,  whatsoever  things  are  true, 
honest,  just,  pure,  lovely,  or  of  good  report,  if  there  be  any 
virtue,  or  any  praise,  think  on  these  things."  In  expounding 
this  text,  the  clergyman  confined  himself  to  enjoining  scru 
pulous  Sabbath  observances,  respect  to  ministers,  etc.,  etc. 
"These  might,"  says  Franklin,  "be  all  good  things;  but, 
as  they  were  not  the  kind  of  good  things  that  I  expected 
from  the  text,  I  despaired  of  ever  meeting  with  them  from 
any  other,  was  disgusted,  and  attended  his  preaching  no 
more." 

JEianklin  attended  that  preaching  no  more.  But  note 
what  follows,  apparently  as  the  consequence  of  his  break 
with  the  church:  "It  was  about  this  time  that  I  conceived 
the  bold  and  arduous  project  of  arriving  Amoral  perfec 
tion.  I  wished  to  live  without  committing  any  fault  at  any 
June,  and  to  conquer  all  that  either  natural  inclination, 
custom  or  company  might  lead  me  into."  Everyone  will 
recall  how  Franklin  drew  up  his  table  of  thirteen  moral 
virtues,  and  how  he  studied  the  means  for  putting  them 
into  effect. /But  for  us  the  most  significant  feature  of  this 
enterprise  and  of  his  proposed  Art  of  Virtue  was  the  real 
istic  spirit  in  which  they  were  conceived,  the  bold  attempt 
to  ground  athe  virtues  upon  experience  rather  than  upon 
authorityjTthe  assertion  of  the  doctrine,  "that  vicious 
actions  aFe  not  hurtful  because  they  are  forbidden,  but 
forbidden  because  they  are  hurtful,  the  nature  of  man 
alone  ..oon&idsi&d^ 

Emerson  as  moralist  takes  up  the  work  which  Frank- 
lin^~pbIiScal  duties  prevented  him  from  carrying  out.    He 
repeats  Franklin's  revolt  in  the  name  of  sincerity,  truth, 
actuality.    "Whoso  would  be  a  man,"  he  declares  in  "Self-  \ 
Reliance,"    "must    be    a    nonconformist.    He    who    would   I 
gather  immortal  palms  must  not  be  hindered  by  the  name  of   j 
goodness,  but  must  explore  if  it  be  goodness."    He  does    !'.. 
not  take  up  the  virtues  so  methodically  and  exhaustively  J 


I' 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

as  Franklin  does.    That  is  mainly  because  he  conceives  mor 
ality  to  lie  in  "a  right  condition  and  attitude  of  the  whole  self, 

,  '  from  which  particular  acts  will  result  with  a  kind  of  in 
stinctive  and  inevitable  Tightness^  _"The  less  a  man  thinks 

"  or  knows  about  his  virtues,"  he  says  in  "Spiritual  Laws," 
"the  better  we  like  him."  He  concerns  himself  less  with 
particular  acts  than  many  less  exacting  moralists,  because 
he  demands  as  the  evidence  of  goodness  that  one's  en 
tire  life  shall  be  "an  alms,  a  battle,  a  conquest,  a  med 
icine."  The  grand  business  of  the  moral  explorer,  as 
tie  understands  it,  is  to  push  past  conduct  to  the  springs  of 
conduct,  to  blaze  a'  path  behind  the  virtues  to  that  general 
moral  power' which  is  the  source  of  all  the  virtues. 

There  is  a  familiar  saying  of  Emerson's  which  would 
epitomize,  if  it  were  understood,  most  of  what  is  important 
in  all  the  Emersonian  messages.  Taken  from  its  context  in 
the  essay  on  "Civilization,"  it  has  perhaps  been  more  widely 
quoted  than  anything  else  that  he  uttered.  Unfortunately, 
one  never  hears  it  quoted  with  any  sense  of  what  it  means 
in  the  thought  of  Emerson,  where  its  position  is  absolutely 
central.  The  saying  is  this:  "Hitch  your  wagon  to  a  star." 
If  one  asks  a  man  from  whose  lips  it  has  glibly  slipped  what 
"Hitch  your  wagon  to  a  star"  means,  he  replies  "Aim  high," 
a  useful  enough  maxim  of  archery,  but  as  a  mo\al  precept 
dreadfully  trite  and  unproductive.  What  Emerson  really 
means  is :  Put  yourself  in  connection  with  irresistible  power. 
In  J;he  physical  world,  let  water  turn  your  milli  let  steam 
pull  your  cars,  let  the  atmospheric  electricity  c^rry  your 
words  around  the  world.  "That  is  the  way  we  are  strong,  by 
borrowing  the  might  of  the  elements."  Likewise  in  the  moral 
world,  go  where  the  gods  are  going,  take  the  direction  of 
all  good  men  and  let  them  bear  you  along,  strike  into  the 
current  of  the  great  human  traditions,  discover  the  law  of 
your  higher  nature  and  act  jvith it.  Presently  _you  will 
notice  that  you  are  no  longer  fuming  at 'obstacles  and  fret 
ting  at  your  personal  impotence  but  are"  borne  forward  like 
one  destined. 

At  just  this  point,  many  stern  critics  have  cried  out 
against  Emerson  as  a  moral  teacher,  and  have  charged  him 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

with  counselling  an  optimistic  passivity.  Emerson  bids  us 
go  with  the  current.  The  stern  critic  snatches  at  a  figure 
and  comes  away  with  an  error.  Have  not  all  the  orthodox 
doctors  taught  that  the  good  man  goes  against  the  current? 
Such  misapprehension  is  the  penalty  for  being  a  poet  — 
for  not  sticking  faithfully  to  the  technical  jargon.  Without 
resorting  to  that  medium,  however,  it  should  be  possible  to 
clear  Emerson  of  the  charge  of  counselling  a  foolish  opti 
mism,  an  indiscreet  or  base  passivity.  It  should,  at  any 
rate,  be  possible  to  clear  him  in  the  eyes  of  any  one  whose 
morals  have,  like  his,  a  religious  basis  —  for  example,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  sad  and  strenuous  author  of  that  great  line: 
"In  la  sua  voluntade  e  nostra  pace — In  his  will  is  our 
peace."  The  point  is,  that  Emerson  does  not  urge  us  to_ 
confide  in  all  currents,  to  yield  to  all  tendencies.  It  is  only 
after  we  have  arrived  by  high  thinking  at  a  proud  defini 
tion  of  man,  that  we  are  to  take  for  our  motto :  "I  dare  do 
all  that  may  become  a  man."  It  is  only  after  we  have  dis 
covered  by  severe  inquisition  the  instincts  of  our  higher 
nature,  that  we  are  to  trust  our  instincts,  and  follow  our 
nature.  We  are  to  be  confident  and  passive.  Yes:  when 
we  are  doing  the  will  of  God. 

What  made  Emerson's  teaching  take  hold  of  his  contem 
poraries,  what  should  commend  it  to  us  today  is  just  its 
unfailingly  positive  character,  the  way  it  supplements  our 
gospel  of  long-suffering  by  the  restoration  of  classical  vir 
tues.  There  is  a  welcome  in  it  for  life,  even  before  the  qual 
ity  is  disclosed:  "Virtue  is  uneducated  power."  There  is  a 
place  in  it  for  manly  resistance:  "Be  as  beneficent  as  the 
sun  or  the  sea,  but  if  your  rights  as  a  rational  being  are 
trenched  on,  die  on  the  first  inch  of  your  territory."  There 
is  the  strong  man's  relish  of  difficulty  and  hostility:  "We 
must  have  antagonisms  in  the  tough  world  for  all  the  va 
riety  of  our  spiritual  faculties  or  they  will  not  be  born." 
There  is  precept  for  use  of  the  spur:  "He  that  rides  his 
hobby  gently  must  always  give  way  to  him  that  rides  his 

< hobby  hard."  There  is  warrant  for  choosing  one's  path: 
It  is  a  man's  "essential  virtue  to  carry  out  into  action  his 
own  dearest  ends,  to  dare  to  do  what  he  believes  and  loves. 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION 

If  he  thinks  a  sonnet  the  flower  and  result  of  the  world,  let 
him  sacrifice  all  to  the  sonnet."  Even  in  his  defimtion_jQJ: 
friendship,  Emerson  drives  at  action:  "He  is  my  friend 
who  makes  me  do  what  I  can."  It  is  obvious' thai  he  reT- 
stores  ambition,  an  aspect  of  magnanimity,  to  its  proper 
place  in  the  formation  of  the  manly  character,  ambition 
to  bring  one's  life  to  its  fullest  fruit. 

This  accounts  for  'his  extraordinary  emphasis  upon  the 
virtue  of  courage:  "It  may  be  safely  trusted  —  God  will  not 
have  his  work  made  manifest  by  cowards."  Read  from  that! 
cue,  and  presently  you  fancy  that  all  forms  of  virtue  ap 
peared  to  him  as  aspects  and  phases  of  courage.  He.Jhas 
praise  for  the  courage  of  non-conformity,  the  courage  of  in 
consistency,  the  courage  of  veracity,  the  courage  to  mix 
with  men,  the  courage  to  be  alone,  the  courage  to  treat  all 
men  as  equals  —  but  at  this  thought,  he  remembers  his 
proud  conception  of  man,  his  imagination  kindles,  and  he 
cries:  "Shall  I  not  treat  all  men  as  gods?"  and,  elsewhere, 
"God  defend  me  from  ever  looking  at  a  man  as  an  animal." 
It  sounds  like  extravagance.  It  may  turn  out  to  be  a 
maxim  of  the  higher  prudence.  Treating  men  like  worms 
has  been  tried  —  without  particularly  gratifying  results. 
Why  not  explore  the  consequences  of  assuming  that  men 
have  a  nobler  destiny?  If  you  are  educating  a  prince,  all 
the  classical  manuals  enjoin  it  upon  you  to  treat  him  like  a 
prince.  Why  should  not  this  hold  of  uncrowned  sovereigns^ 
in  general?  Courage  to  do  these  extraordinary  things 
Emerson  learned  of  his  aunt,  Mary  Moody  Emerson,  who 
taught  him  in  his  boyhood  to  face  whatever  he  feared. 
Courage  he  praised  in  his  last  word  on  Carlyle,  "He  never 
feared  the  face  of  man." 

.Moralists  present  to  us  in  general  three  distinguishable 
sanctions  for  the  virtuous  life,  or  as  Emerson  would  have 
preferred  to  call  it,  the  heroic  life.  They  may  commend 
conduct  as  conducive  to  happiness  in _  tEe "future  world  — 
the  theological  sanction.  They  may  commend  it  as  con 
ducive  to  pleasure  or  happiness  or  convenience  on  earth  — 
the  utilitarian  sanction.  Or  finally  they  may  commend  it  as  • 
in  accordance  with  the  proper  nature  of  man  —  the  human- 

. 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

istic  sanction.  This  is  the  position  taken  by  Marcus  Aure- 
lius  in  a  passage  extolled  by  Matthew  Arnold.  Which  of 
these  is  Emerson's  sanction?  In  the  essay  on  "Compensa 
tion/"  which  he  thought  one  of  his  prime  contributions,  he 
argues  that  divine  .justice  executes  itself  in  this  world  in 
_a,ccordance_\vith_inevrtiible  laws.  It  is  essentially  the  argu 
ment  of  Franklin;  one  is  still  concerned  with  reward  and 
punishment.  But  the  general  tenor  of  Emerson's  life  and 
teaching  rise  above  this  level.  Habitually  he  speaks  in  the 
spirit  of  the  Roman  Emperor,  so  deeply  appealing  to  the 
well-born  soul:  "A  third  in  a  manner  does  not  even  know 
what  he  has  done,  but  he  is  like  a  vine  which  has  produced 
grapes,  and  seeks  for  nothing  more  after  it  has  once  pro 
duced  its  proper  fruit.  As  a  horse  when  he  has  run,  a  dog 
when  he  has  caught  the  game,  a  bee  when  it  has  made  its 
honey,  so  a_man  when  he  has  done  a  good  act,  does  not  call 
out  for  others  to  come  and  see,  but  he  goes  on  to  another 
act,  as  a  vine  goes  on  to  produce  again  the  grapes  in 
season." 


VI 


Though  Emerson  had  thought  much  about  the  relation 
of  the  individual  to  society  and  to  the  state,  he  was  not  in 
any  practical  diurnal  sense  of  the  word  a  politically-minded 
I  man.     Politics  is  the  art  and  science  of  governing  masses. 
The  art  and  science  which  appealed jto  his ^ambi^on^^re 
\  those  which  enable  the  individual  to  govern  himself/  "So  far 
as  he  was  concerne^nT^'^^^  llerre'e'd  of  external  govern 
ment.  ^Indeed,  like  many  of  the  saints  and  sages,  conscious 
that  he  himself  was  actuated  by  the  piirpst  j 


he  looked  with  wary  and  somewhat  jealous  eye  upon  the 
existence  of  an  external  controlling  power  in  the  state, 
which  might  be  actuate^  tjrmotives  far  lesTpure  and,  in  the 
exercise  of  its  constituted  authority,  warp  him  from  the  bias 
of  his  soul.  In  this  respect,  he  was  distinctly  a  child  of 
the  time-spirit  which  followed  the  Revolution  and  preceded 
the  Civil  War,  that  period  when  the  first  dire  need  of  a 
powerful  union  had  passed  and  the  second  dire  need  of  it 
had  not  yet  been  fully  manifested.  He  could  sympathize 


xxx  INTRODUCTION 

with  his  friend  Thoreau,  who  withdrew  from  the  social  or 
ganization  to  the  extent  of  refusing  to  pay  his  taxes.  But 
Emerson's  Yankee  common  sense  preserved  him  from  imi- 
taTing  this  fanaticism  of  individualism.  He  perceived,  as 
every  intelligent  lover  of  freedom  does,  that  a  decent  con 
formity  is  the  very  secret  of  freedom. 

He  loved  freedom  too  much  to  coquet  with  anarchy.  The 
imaginative  masters  of  his  political  speculations,  Plato, 
More,  Milton,  Burke,  Montesquieu,  had  confirmed  him, 
furthermore,  in  the  conviction  that  "politics  rest  on  neces 
sary  foundations,  and  cannot  be  treated  with  levity."  The 
foundation  of  government,  he  recognized,  is  in  the  constitu 
tion  of  man:  "Every  human  society  wants  to  be  officered 
by  the  best  class,  who  shall  be  masters  instructed  in  all  the 
great  arts  of  life;  shall  be  wise,  temperate,  brave,  public 
men,  adorned  with  dignity  and  accomplishments."  He  per 
ceived  that  it  was  no  true  function  of  the  philosopher"  to 
bring  into  contempt  even  imperfect  instruments  of  order 

Cd  liberty. 
ti£e~most  Americans,  however,  he  had  pretty  much  lost 
spect  forgpvernment  by  an  hereditary  aristocracy.     He 


the  virtues  of  the  hereditary  principle  but 
with  a  touch  of  disdain:  it  has  "secured  permanence  of  fam 
ilies,  firmness^  of  customs,  a  certain  external  culture  and 
good  taste;  gratified  the  ear  with  historic  names."  Its  de 
fect  was  its  failure  to  make  the  laws  of  nature  serve  it. 
Nature  tiid  not  co-operate  with  the  system:  ".the  heroic 
father  dia  not  surely  have  heroic  sons,  and  still  less  heroic 
grandsons;  wealth  and  ease  corrupted  the  race." 

He  goes  a  long  way  towards  accepting  the  principles  of 
the  French  Revolution.  His  respect  for  efficient  power 
makes  him  betray,  in  "Representative  Men,'i_a_great-uad- 
miration  for  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  qualified  by  grave  reser 
vations.  He  desires,  with  Carlyle,  to  bring'  forward  a 
natural  aristocracy,  an  aristocracy  of  talent.  He  would 
"like  to  Veiieve  thaT-^rrbcracy  is  trie  ~means  for  recruiting 
that  talent,  for  organizing  the  superior  class  by  which  so 
ciety  needs  to  be  officered.  But  his  study  of  the  tyrannies 
of  an  "efficient  state"  administered  by  Napoleonic  officers, 


INTRODUCTION 

'     'I 
to  whose  talents  a  career  was  opened,  has  awakened  in  him, 

its  it  never  did  in  Carlyle,  a  deep  suspicion  of  the  "natural 
method,"  has  put  him  on  a  criticism  of  dempcra cy,.  which 
is  the  most  valuable,  eleincnt  m^hls^political^':nt^ng;. 

Might  with  right,  Emerson  never  confused  as  Carlyle 
confused  them  —  hopelessly;  as  democracies  may,  at  any 
time,  under  bad  leadership,  confuse  them.  "Our  institutions," 
he  declares  in  his  "Politics,"  "though  in  coincidence  with 
the  spirit  of  the  age,  have  not  any  exemption  from  the 
practical  defects  which  have  discredited  other  forms.  Every 
actual  State  is  corrupt.  Good  men  must  not  obey  the  laws 
too  ivelT."  His  patriotism  was  free,  emancipated.  In  the 
year  when  he  became  "oTage7T§24,  nTwrote  inlns'Tfournal : 
"I  confess  I  am  a  little  cynical  on  some  topics,  and  wrhen 
a  whole  nation  is  roaring  Patriotism  at  the  top  of  its  voice,  I 
am  fain  to  explore  the  cleanness  of  its  hands  and  the  purity 
of  its  heart."  In  his  Journal  of  1833-5  he  wrote:  "The 
life  of  this  world  has  a  limited  worth  in  my  eyes,  and  really 
js  not  worth  such  a  price  as  the  toleration  of  slavery."  He 
cried  out  at  the  land-grabbing  of  the  ^Mexican  AJ^ar.  He 
spoke  repeatedly  between  1837  and  1861  in  behalf  of  free 
speech,  .in  behalf  of  emancipating  the  slaves^  and  in  favor 
of  ..violating  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law. Against  tRe 
howling  of  mobs,  as  Mr.  Woodberry  shows  in  an 
admirable  summary  of  his  participation  in  the  anti- 
slavery  movement,  "his  civic  courage  was  flawless."  He 
interrupted  his  lecture  on  Heroism  in  1838  to  praise  the 
brave  Lovejoy,  "who  gave  his  breast  to  the  buffets  of  a 
mob,  for  the  rights  of  free  speech  and  opinion,  and  died 
when  it  was  better  not  to  live."  He  received  John  Brown 
in  Concord,  and  when  two  years  later  the  law  doomed 
him  to  die,  he  declared  publicly  in  Boston  that  the  new 
saint  would  "make  the  gallows  glorious  like  the  cross." 

Efficient  nature  herself  requires  to  be  checked.  Where 
is  the  check  to  be  found?  "The  wise  man.  is  to  settle  it 
immovably  in  his  mind,  that  he  only  is  fit, to  decide  on  his 
uest  action j  he  only  is  fit  to  praise  it;  his  verdict  is  praise 
enough,  "and  as  to  society,  'their  hiss  is  thine  applause  ' ' 
(Journals,  1833-5.)  The  contention  of  parties  cannot  be 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION 


rutli.     Emerson  has  no 


naive  respect  for  numbers.  Ho  has  looked  with  disillusioned 
u-upon  the  wisdom  of  majorities,..  He  confides  to  his 
ournal,  for  example,  that  if  Jackson  is  elected  "we  shall 
all  feel  dirty."  He  says  that  if  he  were  unduly  in  love  with 
life,  he  would  attend  a  Jackson  caucus,  and  "I  doubt  not 
the  unmixed  malignity,  the  withering  selfishness,  the  impu 
dent  vulgarity,  that  mark  those  meetings  would  speedily 
cure  me  of  my  appetite  for  longevity."  Yet  despite  this 
bitterness,  the  Jackson  party  was,  as  he  himself  recognized, 
that  towards  which  his  own  principles  and  sympathies  — 
in  theory,  broadly  popular  —  should  have  inclined  him. 
Speaking  for  publication,  in  his  essay  on  "Politics,"  he  re 
veals,  with  less  asperity,  the  fact  that  he  is  not  captivated 
by  either  party.  The  paragraph  that  follows  might  have 
been  written  by  a  disappointed  independent  of  1920: 

"The  vice  of  our  leading  parties  in  this  country  ...  is 
that  they  do  not  plant  themselves  on  the  deep  and  neces 
sary  grounds  to  which  they  are  respectively  entitled.  .  .  . 
Of  the  two  great  parties  which,  at  this  hour,  almost  share 
the  nation  between  them,  I  ^shoul^saythat  the  one  has 
the  best  cause,  jmdjthe  other  gontninriTFTfTbontr  men.  The 
philosopher,  the  poet,  or  the  religious  man  will,  of  course, 
wish  to  cast  his  vote  with  the  democrat,  for  free-trade,  for 
wide  suffrage,  for  the  abolition  of  legal  cruelties  in  the 
penal  code,  and  for  facilitating  in  every  manner  the  access 
of  the  young  and  the  poor  to  the  sources  of  wealth  and 
power.  [My  italics.]  But  he  can  rarely  accept  the  persons 
whom  the  so-called  popular  party  proposes  to  him  as  rep 
resentatives  of  these  liberalities.  They  have  not  at  heart 
the  ends  which  give  to  the  name  of  democracy  what  hope 
and  virtue  are  in  it." 

Possibly  Emerson's  concern  for  the  "unwashed  masses" 
forged  a  bit  ahead  of  his  sympathies  as  a  man  of  flesh  and 
blood.  Theoretically,  he  was  not  afraid  of  dirt.  Before 
Whitman  bade  us  shun  "delicatesse,"  Emerson  had  per 
ceived  that  the  effective  democrat  must  not  be  a  "high 
priest  of  the  kid-glove  persuasion."  Writing  in  his  Journal 
at  the  age  of  thirty-two,  he  says:  "I  would  not  have  a 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

man  dainty  in  his  conduct.  Let  him  not  be  afraid  of  being 
besmirched  by  being  advertised  in  the  newspapers,  or  by 
going  into  Athenaeums  or  town-meetings  or  by  making 
speeches  in  public.  Let  his  chapel  of  private  thoughts  be  so 
holy  that  it  shall  perfume  and  separate  him  unto  the  Lord, 
though  he  lay  in  a  kennel." 

It  ought  to  be  possible  to  feel  "inwardly  perfumed  and 
separated  unto  the  Lord"  without  either  showing  or  feeling 
that  Brahminical  spirit  of  exclusiveness  which  men  like 
Holmes  and  Lowell  exhibited,  and  of  which  they  were  ob 
viously  proud.  Emerson  was  quite  earnestly  opposed  to 
the  celebrated  Brahminism  of  Boston  and  Cambridge.  As 
Mr.  Brownell  has  finely  said:  "A  constituent  of  his  refine 
ment  was  an  instinctive  antipathy  to  ideas  of  dominance, 
dictation,  patronage,  caste,  and  material  superiority  whose 
essential  grossness  repelled  him  and  whose  ultimate  origin 
in  contemptuousness  —  probably  the  one  moral  state  except 
cravenness  that  chiefly  he  deemed  contemptible  —  was  plain 
enough  to  his  penetration."  Henry  Adams  suggests,  indeed, 
with  a  touch  of  characteristic  humor,  that  Emerson,  from 
the  spiritual  altitude  of  Concord,  probably  looked  down 
on  the  Brahmins  themselves,  looked  down,  for  instance,  on 
the  Adamses,  as  worldlings. 

Now  there  is  interesting  evidence  in  the  Journals  that 
Emerson  might  have  looked  down  on  Henry  Adams,  but 
from  a  point  of  view  remote  from  that  indicated  by  Adams : 

"I.  do  not  forgive  in  any  man  this  forlorn  pride,  as  if  he 
were  an  Ultimus  Romanorum.    I  am  more  American  in  my 
jfeeJ^n^sJjThis  country  is  full  of  people  whose  fathers  were   ; 
judges,  generals,  and  bank  presidents,  and  if  all  their  boys   ' 
should  give  themselves  airs  thereon  and  rest  henceforth  on 
the  oars  of  their  fathers'  merit,  we  should  be  a  sad  hungry_J 
^eneratipn.'l^'pMo'^eover.  I  esteem  it  my  best  birthright  that 
our  people  are  not  crippled  by  family  and  official  pride, 
that  the  best  broadcloth  coat  in  the  country  is  put  off  to  put 
on  a  blue  frock,  that  the  best  man  in  town  may  steer  his 
plough-tail  or  may  drive  a  milk-cart.  There  is  a  great  deal  of 
work  in  our  men,  and  a  false  pride  has  not  yet  made  them 
idle  or  ashamed.    Moreover  I  am  more  philosophical  than 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION 

to  love  this  retrospect.  I  believe  in  the  being  God,  not  in 
the  God  that  has  been.  I  work;  my  fathers  may  have"" 
wrought  or  rested.  What  have  I  to  do  with  them,  or  with 
the  Fellatahs,  or  the  great  Khan!  I  know  a  worthy  man 
who  walks  the  streets  with  silent  indignation  as  a  last  of  his 
?ace,  quite  contemptuously  eyeing  the  passing  multitude." 

Emerson  goes  further  than  that  in  welcoming  the  "new 
man,"  the  power  without  known  antecedents.  In  a  notable 
"passage  of  his  Journal  for  1845,  one  sees  him,  as  it  were, 
shaking  off  the  dust  of  the  house  of  his  fathers,  breaking 
out  of  the  old  New  England,  in  order  to  enter  America,  to 
participate  in  that  national  spirit  which  we  know  today 
must  learn  to  enfold  and  assimilate  men  of  all  races : 

"I  hate  the  narrowness  of  the  Native  American  Party.  It 
is  the  dog  in  the  manger.  It  is  precisely  opposite  to  all 
the  dictates  of  love  and  magnanimity;  and  therefore,  of 
course,  opposite  to  true  wisdom.  .  .  .  Man  is  the  most 
composite  of  all  creatures.  .  .  .  Well,  as  in  the  old  burning 
of  the  Temple  at  Corinth,  by  the  melting  and  intermixture 
of  silver  and  gold  and  other  metals  a  new  compound  more 
precious  than  any,  called  Corinthian  brass,  was  formed;  so 
in  this  continent,  —  asylum  of  all  nations,  —  the  energy  jof 
Irish,  Germans,  Swedes,  iPoles,  and  Cossacks,  and  all  the 
European  tribes,  —  of  the  Africans,  and  of  the  Polynesians, 
—  will  construct  a  new  race,  a  new  religion,  a  new  state, 'a 
.new  literature,  which  will  be  as  vigorous  as  the  new  Europe 
which  came  out  of  the  smelting-pot  of  the  Dark  Ages,  or 
that  which  earlier  emerged  from  f He  Pelasgic  and  Etruscan 
barbarism.  La  Nature  aim.e  les  croisements." 

No  man  who  honestly  and  earnestly  contemplates  the 
making  of  a  nation  out  of  such  heterogeneous  elements  as 
Emerson  here  enumerates,  no  man  who  truly  cherishes  the 
potentialities  of  human  power,  wherever  they  lie,  is  dis 
posed  to  assign  to  political  agencies  an  undue  part  in  shap 
ing  the  product  of  the  melting-pot.  Emerson  did  not.  If 
we  were  to  sum  up  his  attitude  towards  the  state  in  a 
single  sentence,  it  would  take  some  such  form  as  this:  The 
.StjLte  exists  for  the  Jbenefit  of  all  the^mdividuals^rL^t :  anct 
its  stability  and  its  welfare  depend  primarily  on  the  effort 

*•*  JT  A  .  .•/  ,.^f 


INTRODUCTION  xxxv 


/  V 

of  each  individual  in  it./  All  concrete  advance  towards  social  Jv 

ITe  bel  je^^fr  i^ffccpiflpiisiied  "Ey.  minQrities  —  /   i 

r\r    r\vioi     jiT*     *^     r*r\ntTf  v\r    ^xritn     n     c?"f  vr\nrr    Tnnlino  _  ^    * 


egenera 


minorities  ofoneTyln  a  country  with  a  strong  inclina 
tion"  "TOwiirctT'Eeginmrig  all  efforts  for  moral  reformation  by 
the  election  of  a  president  and  a  secretary,  he  proposes  this 
modest  method:  "Count  from  yourself  in  order  the  persons 
that  have  near  relation  to  you  up  to  ten  or  fifteen,  and 
see  if  you  can  consider  your  whole  relation  to  each  without 
squirming.  That  will  be  something."  Commenting,  in 
"Life  and  Letters  in  New  England,"  on  a  socialistic  scheme 
for  imposing  economic  salvation  on  the  world  from  No.  200 
Broadway,  he  surmises  that  it  would  be  better  to  say:  "Let 
us  be  lovers  and  servants  of  that  which  is  just,  and  straigrit- 
way  every  man  becomes  a  center  of  a  holy  and  beneficent 
republic,  which  he  sees  to  include  all  men  in  its  law,  like  that 
of  Plato  and  Christ."  Let  the  great^state  arch  above  us;  -\ 
but  letJjLbewaro  of  pressing  too~near^  lestJ"'fd  'cfusrTmore  ; 
natural  and  yjtalj)owcrs  —  the  power  of  the  individual  over 
'  o  power  of  (he  family,  the  neighborhood,  the 
own-meeting,  the  local  enterprise;  the  "atmospheric" 


power  of  culture,  the  gradual  and  beneficent  pressure  of  a 
natural  society  steadily  growing  stronger  by  the  diffusion  of^ 
science  and  humane  learning. 

The  Emersonian  doctrine  of  democratic  individualism  has 
i?s  defects.  In  these  days  it  "appears  rather  homely  and 
old-fashioned.  Yet  it  has  merits  towards  which  one  occa 
sionally  turns  witTi  nostalgic  yearnings,  merits  which  may 
yet  restore  it  to  some  of  its  former  favor.  After  many  a 
popular  election,  is  it  not  still  the  chief  available  consolation 
to  go  quietly  home  and  close  the  door  and  reflect  that  the 
wise  man  "occupies  all  the  space  between  God  and  the 
mob?"  And  in  spite  of  all  the  allurement  of  centralized  power, 
with  its  promise  of  prompt  and  "nation-wide"  progress  in 
the  sense  of  the  men  at  Washington,  shall  we  not  find  in  the 
years  to  come  that  the  preservation  of  individuality  in  the 
.private  citizen  and  of  pride  and  initiative  in  the  '''parish," 
the  province,  and  the  separate  states  are  as  vital  to  the 
health  of  the  far-flung  nation  as  the  use  of  Hanclsand  feet? 


xxxvi  INTRODUCTION 


VII 

It  has  ordinarily  been  assumed  and  asserted  that  Emer 
son  was  very  little  developed  on  the  aesthgtic  £icle.  This 
assumption  is  intimately  associated  wit  IT  two  otter  popular 
errors,  which,  in  the  light  of  our  examination,  we  may  now 
dismiss.  We  may  first  dismiss  the  popular  error  which 
holds  that  the  center  of  his  being  was  eOucaTfToF  we  have 
v  _seen  thaL.^hecenter^f  hisIBemg  wn  s  jgljgini  i  s  We  may" 
dismiss,  alsoTtfee" popular  error  of  regarding  him  as  a  rep 
resentative  of  Puritan  decadence;  for  Wjejjaye.seen  that  he 
represents  rather  a  renascence  and  fresh  flowering  of  the 
ancient  passion  for  perfection.  We  think  rightly  of 
Emerson  when  we  think  of  him  as, a  jmmanist  bent  upon 
liberating  and  developing  not  some  but  all  of  jine  properly 
human  powers.  He  builds  His  many-chambered  house  of 
life  around  a  private  oratory,  because,  like  every  success 
fully  exploring  humanist,  he  finds  a  private  oratory  at  the 
center  of  his  heart.  But  this  innermost  shrine  of  religious 
inspiration  is  emphatically  not  a  Calvinistic  chapel,  hostile 
to_  the  arts.  It  is  a*  retreat  friendly  to  all  the  Muses  that 
ever  haunted  "Siloa's  brook"  or  Heliconian  springs. 

Emerson  believed,  indeed,  like  his  great  predecessor  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  that  the  pulsing  spirit  which  "vol 
untary  moves  harmonious  numbers"  prefers  before  all  tem 
ples  "the  upright  heart  and  pure."  But  no  one  who  has  ap 
proached  that  inner  shrine  will  ever  picture  him  as  sum- 
!  moning  the  Sacred  Nine  about  him  in  order  to  give  them  a 
lesson  in  conduct.  No  one  understands  Emerson  who  fails 
to  perceive  that  he  'trusts  his  inspiration,  like  a  Pythian 
prophet,  like  a  celebrant  of  Dionysian  mysteries.  "If  I  am 
the  devil's  child,"  he  defiantly  retorted  in  his  youth  to  one 
who  had  urged  him  to  beware  of  his  instincts,  "I  will  live 
from  the  devil."  Well  assured  that  he  was  not  the  devil's 
child,  he  opened  communication  with  his  sources  of  power, 
resolute  to  receive  and  utter  whatever  they  sent,  though  it 
might  sound  like  blasphemy,  though  it  might  whiff  received 
ethics  down  the  wind.  Through  a  great  part  of  his  prose 
and  verse,  there  is  the  peculiar  heat  and  throb  which  .marks 
work  conceived  in  creative  heat,  under  the  sway  of  the 


INTRODUCTION  xxxvii 

" divine  ^madness.''  Some  of  the  friends  who  came  closest  to 
him ^  iestSie3Toreceiving  from  him  not  counsel  but  a  sheer 
access  of  vital  energy  exhilarating  to  the  verge  of  intoxica 
tion.  It  is  above  all  a  generative  and  fecundating  impulse 
that  he  seeks  for  himself.  It  is  above  all  that  he  desires 
to  impart  to  others. 

We  all  tend  to  slip  at  times  into  colorless  and  meaningless 
routine,  into  lives  of  grey  commonplace  and  insignificance. 
Emerson  seems  to  have  apprehended  this  as  a  peril  to  which 
our  democratic  society  is  peculiarly  exposed.  He  cultivates 
the  means  of  combating  it.  He  cultivates,  for  example,  the 
color  of  Oriental  poetry.  He  follows  Hafiz,  this  Unitarian 
in  revolt  against  the  tedium  and  dead  level  of  the  cold  New 
England  virtue,  and  cries:  "Let  us  be  crowned  with  roses, 
let  us  drink  wine,  and  break  up  the  tiresome  old  roof  of 
heaveTTinTo'liew  forms."  He  writes  an  essay  on  "Inspira 
tion,"  which  is  a  study  under  ten  headings  of  the  technique 
of  exaltation,  of  ecstasy.  He  chants  an  ode  to  Bacchus, 
calling  for 

Wine  of  wine, 

Blood  of  the  world, 

Form  of  forms,  and  mold  of  statures, 

That  I  intoxicated 

And  by  the  draught  assimilated, 

May  float  at  pleasure  through  all  natures. 

Under  the  heading  "Morals"  in  his  discourse  on  "Poetry 
and  Imagination,"  he  comes  to  the  conclusion,  entirely  char 
acteristic  of  him,  that  "Power,  new  power,  is  the  good 
which  the  soul  seeks."  On  this  theme  Emerson  writes 
occasionally  with  a  recklessness  not  often  associated  with 
the  "Victorian"  period  in  America.  For  power,  he  intimates 
in  "Mithridates,"  a  poet  may  perhaps  well  pay  with  his 
soul: 

Too  long  shut  in  strait  and  few, 
Thinly  dieted  on  dew, 
I  will  use  the  world,  rnd  sift  it, 
To  a  thousand  humors  shift  it, 
As  you  spin  a  cherry. 
O  doleful  ghosts,  and  goblins  merry! 
O  all  you  virtues,  methods,  mights- 
Means,   appliances,    delights, 


xxxviii  INTRODUCTION 

Reputed  wrongs  and  braggart  rights, 
Smug  routine,  and  things  allowed, 
Minorities,  things  under  cloud! 
Hither!    take  me,  use  me,  fill  me, 
Vein  and  artery,  though  ye  kill  me! 

As  a  priest  of  the  "being  God,  not  the  God  that  has 
been/'  Emerson  finds  that  even  the  greatest  of  the  old  poets 
do  not  wholly  content  him.  As  a  believer  in  the  doctrine 
of  continuous  revelation,  he  demands  a  new  revelation.  "In 
a  cotillon,"  he  declares  in  "Poetry  and  Imagination,"  "some 
persons  dance  and  others  await  their  turn  when  the  music 
and  the  figure  come  to  them.  In  the  dance  of  God  there  is 
not  one  of  the  chorus  but  can  and  will  begin  to  spin,  monu 
mental  as  he  now  looks,  whenever  the  music  and  figure 
reach  his  place  and  duty.  0  celestial  Bacchus !  drive  them 
mad,  —  this  multitude  of  vagabonds,  hungry  for  eloquence, 
hungry  for  poetry,  starving  for  symbols,  perishing  for 
want  of  electricity  to  vitalize  this  too  much  pasture,  and 
in  the  long  delay  indemnifying  themselves  with  the  false 
wine  of  alcohol,  of  politics,  or  of  money. *< 

Emerson  knew  pretty  well  what  he  wanted  in  the  way  of 
a  new  poet.  Hejva&not  in  the  least  interested  in  the  pro 
duction  of  more  "parlor  or  piano  verse."  jHe.  wanted  such 
utterance  as  could  come  only  from  a  great  and  noble  soul 
immersed  in  the  realities  and  filled  with  the  spirit  of  the 
modern  world,. _His  poet  must,  be  radical,  revolutionary, 
formative^  "Bring  us  the  bards  who  shall  sing  all  our  old 
ideas  out  of  our  heads,  and  new  ones  in;  men-making 
poets.  .  .  ,  poetry  which  finds  its  rhymes  and  cadences  in 
IKTrhymes  and  iterations  of  nature,  and  is  the  gift  to  men 
of  new  images  and  symbols,  each  the  ensign  and  oracle  of 
an  age;  that  shall  assimilate  men  to  it,  mould  itself  into 
religions  and  mythologies,  and  impart  its  quality  to  cen- 
tyries."  In  his  essay  on  "The  Poet"  he  regrets  that  "we 
have  yet  had  no  genius  in  America,  with  tyrannous  eye, 
which  knew  the  value  of  our  incomparable  materials,  and 
saw,  in  the  barbarism  and  materialism  of  the  times,  another 
carnival  of  the  same  gods  whose  picture  it  so  much  admires 
«n  Homer;  then  in  the  middle  age;  then  in  Calvinism.  .  .  . 
Our  log-rolling,  our  stumps  and  their  politics,  our  fisheries, 


INTRODUCTION  xxxix 

our  Negroes,  and  Indians,  our  boats,  and  our  repudiations, 
the  wrath  of  rogues,  and  the  pusillanimity  of  honest  men, 
the  northern  trade,  the  southern  planting,  the  western 
clearing,  Oregon  and  Texas,  are  yet  unsung.  Yet  America 
is  a  poem  in  our  eyes;  its  ample  geography  dazzles  the 
imagination,  and  it  will  not  wait  long  for  metres."  Clearly, 
Emerson  was  calling  for  a  singer  in  many  important  re- 
jipects  resembling  Whitman;  and  Whitman  answered. 

It  is  not  yet  adequately  recognized  to  what  extent  Emer- 
son  anticipated  not  only  Whitman  but  also  the  poets  of 
the  present  hour.  He  anticipates  their  desire  to  strike  up 
for  the  new  world  a  new  tune.  /He  thinks  that  we  leaned 
too  much  in  the  past  upon  England.  ^Our^literature  has 
become  lifelessly  traditional  through  uninspired  imitation. 
We  require  some  sort  of  break  and  shock  to  liberate  our  .* 
own  native  talents.  In  an  extremely  interesting  passage  of  Ir 
the  third  volume  of  the  Journals,  he  records  the  surmise  r  i 
that  salvation  may  come  from  that  very  element  which,  in 
politics,  he  thought  of  as  constituting  the  party  of  unkempt 
pioneers,  barbarians,  slave-holders,  and  corruptionists  :  "I 
suppose  the  evil  may  be  cured  by  this  rank  rabble  party, 
the  Jacksonism  of  the  country,  heedless  of  English  and  of  all 
literature  —  a  stone  cut  out  of  the  ground  without  hands  — 
they  may  root  out  the  hollow  dilettantism  of  our  cultiva 
tion  in  the  coarsest  way,  and  the  new  born  may  begin  again 
to  frame  their  own  world  with  greater  advantage."  / 

As  literary  critic,  Emerson  has,  with  only  an  occasional 
trace  of  reluctance,  the  courage  of  his  free  religion,  his 
philosophy,  his  politics,  His  thought  in  these  matters  un 
derlies  and  supports  his  Poetics  and  his  Rhetoric.  Mystic, 
symbolist,  and  democrat,  he  is  constrained  to  declare  that 
thorn  is  no  vulgar  life  save  that  of  which  the  poetry  has  not 
yetHSe'eTT  written.  He  urges  us  bravel^-lo  paint  the  pros 
pect  from  our  doors,  jyhprPYPT  flifY  open.  He  asserts  the 
possibility  of  all  subjects:  "A  dog  drawn  by  a  master,  or  a 
satisfies,  and  is  a  reality  not  less  than  the 


froscoes  of  Angelo."  He  detests  a  bookish  and  fossilized 
phrase  and  diction:  "Ho  only  is  a  good  writer  who  keeps  one 
eye  on  his  page,  and  with  the  .Qtherjjweeps  over  things;  so 
that  every  sentence  brings  in  a  new  contribution  of  obser- 


xi  INTRODUCTION 

vation."  He  has  meditated  deeply  on  image,  rhyme,  and 
riiythm;  and  has  discovered  the  literary  value  of  colloquial 
caderjce,  the  picturesque  language  of  children,  ike  scott  and 
violence  of  the  "yeoman/1  the  pungency  of  natural  persons 
expressing  their  motner-wit.  His  essays  contain  as  much 
great  "free  verse"  as  any  one  has  written  since.  Poems,such 
as  "Hamatreya,"  "Woodnotes,"  "Monadnoc,"  and  "Musketa- 
quid"  prove  his  possession  of  senses  tinglingly  responsive  to 
the  touches  of  native  color,  scent,  and  sound;  show  a  poeti 
cal  nature  that  has  struck  root  and  has  been  richly  nour 
ished  "in  haunts  which  others  scorned."  As  for  his  general 
theory  of  art,  in  his  more  ^anguine  and  exalted  moments  he 
goes  beyond  our  most  radical  leaders  in  his  passion  for  rec- 
i  onciling  art  with  nature  and  restoring  it  to  "all  the  people," 
|  so  that  the  ultimate  phase  of  artistic  development  would 
f  be  an  habitual  happy  improvisation. 

That  aspiration,  as  Emerson  would  have  been  the  first  to 
admit,  was "ideat/was  Utopian.    It  could  be  realized  only  in 
a  profoundly  regenerated  and  enriched  society.     In  this 
world  as  it  is  at  present,  he  recognized  that  great  poetry, 
for  example,  must  be  the  result  of  special  culture,  and  aus 
tere  discipline.     It  must  therefore  be  submitted  for  judg- 
menJLto  the  cultivated  and  the  disciplined.    He  has  no  im 
mediate  intention  of  accepting  the  standards  of  .the  mob. 
Our  radical  anti-academic  friends  would  indeed  dispose  of 
him  as  "academic."    For  he  comforts  himself,  in  the  absence 
of  a  national  Academy,  with  this  reflection,  in  the  second  vol 
ume  of  the  JournalsjJ^Consider  the  permanence  of  the  best  , 
"opinion:   the  certainty  with  which  a  good  book  acquires  ) 
fame,  though  a  bad  book  succeeds  better  at  first-.    Consider  / 
the  natural  academy  which  the  best  heads  of  the  time  con-/ 
stitute,  and  which  'tis  pleasant  to  see,  act  almost  as  har-/ 
momously  and  efficiently,  as  if  they  were  organized  an(J 
acted  by  vote." 

For  a  writer  who  is  often  classified  nowadays  as  a  "mere 
mojalist/'  Emerson  liberated  an  extraordinary  number  of 
ideas  about  both  the  major  and  the  minor  problems  of  the 
literary  art.  You  may  say,  if  you  like,  that  his  literary 
scrupulousness  is  but  an  aspect  of  his  moral  rectitude;  but 


INTRODUCTION  xli 

any  other  writer  of  his  exacting  artistic  conscience  would 
be  saluted  by  all  the  anti-Puritans  as  a  "lover  of  beauty," 
a  "martyr  of  style."  In  1831,  long  before  Flaubert  or 
Pater  had  announced  it,  he  committed  to  his  Journal  the 
doctrine  of  the  "unique  word'':  "No  man  can  write  well 
who  thinks  there  is  any  choice  of  words  for  him.  The  laws 
of  composition  are  as  strict  as  those  of  sculpture  and  archi 
tecture.  There  is  always  one  line  that  ought  to  be  drawn, 
or  one  proportion  that  should  be  kept,  and  every  other  line 
or  proportion  is  wrong,  and  so  far  wrong  as  it  deviates  from 
this.  So  in  writing,  there  is  always  a  right  word,  and  every 
other  than  that  is  wrong.  There  is  no  beauty  in  words 
except  in  their  collocation.  The  effect  of  a  fanciful  word 
misplaced,  is  like  that  of  a  horn  of  exquisite  polish  growing 

•  on  a  human  head." 

Economy,  Emerson  regards  as  the  poet's  chastity:  "Let 

the  poet,  of  all  men,  stop  with  his  inspiration.    The  inex- 

i  orable  rule  in  the  muses'  court,  either  inspiration  or  silence, 

\  compels    the    bard    to    report    only    his    supreme    mo- 

*  ments.    It  teaches  the  enormous  force  of  a  few  words  and  in 
;  proportion  to  the  inspiration  checks  loquacity."     Despite 

his  desire  for  fresh  beginnings  in  America,  he  finds  it  neces 
sary  to  turn  back  to  the  old  English  writers,  "not  because 
they  are  old,  but  simply  because  they  wrote  well.  If  we 
,  write  as  well,  we  may  deviate  from  them  and  our  devia 
tions  shall  be  classical." '"E very  one,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  re 
members  the  little  poem  called  "The  Test,"  in  which  Emer 
son  challenges  his  reader  to  find  the  "five  lines"  in  his 
verses  which  outlasted  five  hundred.  It  is  a  virtue  in  him, 
which  our  present  loquacity  should  some  day  make 
esteemed,  that  he  so  often  anticipates  the  winnowing  of 
time,  as  in  the  firm  Landorian  carving  of  the  "Concord 
Hymn"  with  its  cumulative  solemnity,  reaching  its  climax 
in  the  breathless  pause  of  the  flawless  final  stanza,  before 
the  ultimate  foot: 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die.  and  leave  their  children  free, 
Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 


xlii  INTRODUCTION 

The  popular  taste  in  poetry,  as  is  proved  by  many  of 
the  great  reputations,  is  a  little  waterish.  Emerson  served 
"wine  of  wine."  He  has  been  underrated  as  a  poet  because 
he  did  not  understand,  or  would  not  practice,  dilution.  One 
suspects  that  he  might  be  reinstated,  if  some  student  of 
Japanese  verse  would  display  in  a  wide-margined  volume 
some  fifty  or  a  hundred  of  his  "images,"  selected  here  and 
there  from  his  basket  of  cut  gems,  for  example: 

I  am  a  willow  of  the  wilderness 
Loving  the  wind  that  bent  me 

Or  possibly  the   reviver  of  Emerson  should   remind  the 
Chicago  School  of  these  lines: 

Bulkeley,  Hunt,  Willard,  Hosmer,  Merriam,  Flint, 
Possessed  the  land  which  rendered  to  their  toil 
Hay,  corn,  roots,  hemp,  flax,  apples,  wool  and  wood. 

~  Critics  have  sufficiently  harped  upon  certain  defects  in 
the  prose  style  of  Emerson :  the  apparent  lack  of  firm  de 
sign  and  evolution  in  the  larger  divisions  of  his  discourse; 
the  difficult  transitions,  the  imperfect  coherence,  within  the" 
paragraphs.  It  is  perhaps  worth  observing  that  some  of 
these  faults  are  closely  connected  with  his  characteristic 
virtues,  and  are  truly  due  to  the  excess  of  these  virtues, 
f^merson  is  characteristically  rich  and  economical.  He  is  so 
rich  that  he  can  put  into  a  sentence  as  much  as  another 
would  put  into  a  paragraph,  and  as  much  into  a  paragraph 
as  another  would  put  into  his  entire  discourse.  He  is  so 
economical  of  space,  so  bent  on  filling  every  inch  with 
solid  matter,  that  he  deliberately  prunes  away  what  is 
jjierely  explanatory  and  transitional.  If  one  compares 
passages  in  the  Journals  with  parallel  passages  in  the  essays, 
one  remarks  at  first  with  surprise  that  the  superiority  on  the 
I  side  of  fluency  and  texture  is  frequently  with  the  Journals. 
The  superiority  of  the  essays  is  in  condensation  and  in 
tensity. 

It  should  be  observed,  furthermore,  that  in  the  prose 
which  Emerson  himself  published  the  degree  of  fluency  and 
stylistic  coherence  varies  greatly  with  the  subject.  The 
moral  essays,  such  as  "Self-Reliance"  and  "Compensation," 
are  written  more  or  less  in  the  manner  of  the  Book  of 


INTRODUCTION  xliii 

Proverbs  or  the  Essays  of  Bacon.  They  are  built  of  dis 
tinct  injunctions,  maxims,  and  fragments  of  wisdom,  twenty 
or  thirty  of  them  to  a  paragraph.  "Solid  bags  of  duckshot," 
Carlyle  called  these  paragraphs,  and  urged  Emerson  to  fuse 
them  into  a  solid  luminous  bar.  They  are  close  packed 
enough,  in  all  conscience,  without  fusion.  There  is  stuff 
enough  for  a  morning's  meditation  in  any  half-dozen  of  the 
hundreds  of  maxims  which  make  up  the  essay  on  Self-Re 
liance.  But  no  ordinary  mind  can  read  easily  page  after 
page  of  epitomized  moral  experience:  "Be  how  it  will,  do 
right  now.  Always  scorn  appearances,  and  you  always  may. 
The  force  of  character  is  cumulative.  All  the  foregone 
days  of  virtue  work  their  health  into  this."  Before  such 
matter  can  be  made  to  flow,  it  must  be  diluted.  Read  in 
youth  and  for  the  first  time,  a  page  of  such  writing  seems 
pebbly  and  difficult.  But  at  each  re-reading  one  discovers 
more  pebbles  that  are  interestingly  translucent,  opalescent, 
with  a  fire  at  the  heart  of  them.  Returning  later  in  life, 
after  perhaps  the  twentieth  reading,  one  may  discover  that 
the  pattern  in  the  page  comes  out,  that  the  gaps  are  bridged 
by  one's  own  experience,  that  each  sentence  is  illustrated 
by  one's  own  verification  of  it,  and  that  somehow  this 
swift  "saltation*'  from  epitome  to  epitome  of  moral  wisdom 
makes  all  other  moral  writing  seem  thin  and  flat. 

But  Emerson  has  many  other  prose  manners,  to  which 
the  stock  criticisms  and  the  traditional  jests  are  not  at  all 
applicable.  Turn,  for  example,  to  his  "Thoreau,"  a  bio 
graphical  portrait  executed  in  the  firm  objective  manner  of 
Suetonius  yet  with  the  gusto  of  Plutarch  — a  superbly 
vital  piece  of  characterization,  unsurpassed  if  not  unequalled 
by  anything  of  like  scope  in  American  literature.  Or  con 
sider  the  flow  of  his  reminiscences  of  Brook  Farm  and  his 
bland  comment  on  Fourierism  in  "Life  and  Letters  in  New 
England";  it  is  beautiful  writing,  urbane,  luminous,  ex 
quisitely  ironical.  Or  for  still  another  vein,  turn  the  pages 
in  "English  Traits"  where  he  describes  meeting  Thomas 
Carlyle,  with  something  of  the  Scotch  master's  graphic 
force: 


xliv  INTRODUCTION 

On  my  return,  I  came  from  Glasgow  to  Dumfries,  and  being  in 
tent  on  delivering  a  letter  which  I  had  brought  from  Rome,  inquired 
for  Craigenputtock.  It  was  a  farm  in  Nithdale,  in  the  parish  of 
Dumscore,  sixteen  miles  distant.  No  public  coach  passed  near  it, 
so  I  took  a  private  carriage  from  the  inn.  I  found  the  house  amid 
heathery  hills,  where  the  lonely  scholar  nourished  his  mighty  heart. 
Carlyle  was  a  man  from  his  youth,  an  author  who  did  not  need  to 
hide  from  his  readers,  and  as  absolute  a  man  of  the  world,  unknown 
and  exiled  on  that  hill-farm  as  if  holding  on  his  own  terms  what  is 
best  in  London.  He  was  tall  and  gaunt,  with  a  cliff-like  brow,  self- 
possessed  and  holding  his  extraordinary  powers  of  conversation  in 
easy  command;  clinging  to  his  northern  accent  with  evident  relish; 
full  of  lively  anecdote,  and  with  a  streaming  humor,  which  floated 
everything  he  looked  upon. 

If  Emerson  writes  comparatively  little  in  the  descriptive 
and  narrative  veins,  it  is  neither  from  impotence  nor  by 
chance  but  on  consideration.  "Do  you  see/'  he  asks  himself, 
"whavt  we  preserve  of  history?  a  few  anecdotes  of  a  moral 
quality  of  some  momentary  act  or  word."  The  word  of 
Canute  on  the  sea-shore,  he  observes,  is  all  the  world  re 
members  of  the  Danish  conquest.  Under  the  influence  of 
this  thought,  he  seems,  for  a  time,  to  have  meditated  com 
posing  "a  modern  Plutarch,"  British  and  American,  —  in 
which  his  "Thoreau"  would  well  have  taken  the  place  of 
Cato,  and  his  "Lincoln"  a  place  of  its  own.  His  "Repre 
sentative  Men"  was  a  partial  fulfilment  of  the  design.  But 
quite  early  in  life  Emerson  was  much  occupied  by  a  rival 
thought,  thus  recorded  in  the  fourth  volume  of  the  Jour 
nals:  "I  said  to  Bryant  and  to  these  young  people,  that  the 
high  poetry  of  the  world  from  the  beginning  has  been 
ethical,  and  it  is  the  tendency  of  the  ripe  modern  mind  to 
produce  it.  .  .  .  As  I  think,  no  man  could  be  better  occu 
pied  than  in  making  up  his  own  bible  by  hearkening  to  all 
those  sentences  which  now  here,  now  there,  now  in  nursery 
rhymes,  now  in  Hebrew,  now  in  English  bards,  thrill  him 
like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet."  In  fulfilment  of  that  design 
Emerson  wrote  his  great  essays: 

b  many  a  lonely  student,  obscure  and  friendless,  medi 
tating  in  the  long  cold  spring  and  adolescence  of  his  talent 
on  his  untried  powers,  Emerson  has  come  as  with  the  sound 
of  a  magical  trumpet,  shattering  the  dungeons  of  fear,  send- 


INTRODUCTION  xlv 

ing  the  young  knight  on  his  quest  inwardly  fortified  and 
resolute  to  give  soul  and  body  to  that  undertaking,  what 
ever  it  be,  for  which  he  was  sent  into  the  world.  Such  is 
the  primary  function  of  the  religious  and  democratic  ethos 
with  which  he  sought  to  impregnate  American  letters.  He, 
too,  had  been  lonely,  obscure,  uncertain  of  his  way,  feeble, 
and  prone  to  husband  his  strength  and  his  gifts.  But  when 
he  found  which  way  the  planets  are  going  and  the  well 
where  the  gods  drink,  he  faltered  no  longer.  "What  a  dis 
covery  I  made  one  day,  that  the  more  I  spent  the  more  I 
grew,  that  it  was  as  easy  to  occupy  a  large  place  and  doj 
much  work  as  an  obscure  place  to  do  little;  and  that  in  the  j 
winter  in  which  I  communicated  all  my  results  to  classes,  I 
was  full  of  new  thoughts."  To  this,  let  us  add  that  other 
thought,  so  precious  to  him  that  it  appears  repeatedly  in 
various  forms  in  the  Journals  and  in  the  Essays:  "If  a  man 
knows  the  law,  he  may  settle  himself  in  a  shanty  in  a  pine 
forest,  and  men  will  and  must  find  their  way  to  him  as 
readily  as  if  he  lived  in  the  City  Hall."  We  shall  keep  near 
the  main  stream  of  the  Emersonian  virtue,  if  we  close  with 
a  variation  and  enlargement  of  the  same  theme:  "Penetrate 
to  the  bottom  of  the  fact  which  draws  you,  although  no 
newspaper,  no  poet,  no  man,  has  ever  yet  found  life  and 
beauty  in  that  region,  and  presently  when  men  are  whis 
pered  by  the  gods  to  go  and  hunt  in  that  direction,  they 
shall  find  that  they  cannot  get  to  the  point  which  they 
would  reach  without  passing  over  that  highway  which  you 
have  built.  Your  hermit's  lodge  shall  be  the  Holy  City  and 
the  Fair  of  the  whole  world." 


ESSAYS  OF  EMERSON 
I 

NATURE 


A  subtle  chain  of  countless  rings 
The  next  unto  the  farthest  brings; 
The  eye  reads  omens  where  it  goes, 
And  speaks  all  languages  the  rose; 
And,  striving  to  be  man,  the  worm 
Mounts  through  all  the  spires  of  form. 


INTRODUCTION 

OUR  age  is  retrospective.  It  builds  the  sepulchres  of  the 
fathers.  It  writes  biographies,  histories,  and  criticism. 
The  foregoing  generations  beheld  God  and  nature  face 
to  face;  we,  through  their  eyes.  Why  should  not  we  also 
enjoy  an  original  relation  to  the  universe?  Why  should 
not  we  have  a  poetry  and  philosophy  of  insight^and  not 
of  tradition,  and  a  religion  by  revelation  to  us,  and  not 
the  history  of  theirs?  Embosomed  for  a  season  in  nature, 
whose  floods  of  life  stream  around  and  through  us,  and 
invite"  us  by  the  powers  they  supply,  to  action  proportioned 
to  nature,  why  should  we  grope  among  the  dry  bones  of 
the  past,  or  put  the  living  generation  into  masquerade  out 
of  its  faded  wardrobe?  The  sun  shines  to-day  also.  There 
is  more  wool  and  flax  in  the  fields  There  are  new  lands, 
new  men,  new  thoughts.  Let  us  demand  our  own  works 
and  laws  and  worship. 

Undoubtedly  we  have  no  questions  to  ask  which  are 
unanswerable.  We  must  trust  the  perfection  of  the  crea 
tion  so  far,  as  to  believe  that  whatever  curiosity  the  order 

1 


2  NATURE 

ol  tilings  has  awakened  in  our  minds,  the  order  of  things 
can  sati'sTy,  jijvery  man's  condition  is  a  solution  in  hiero 
glyphic  to  those  inquiries  he  would  put.  He  acts  it  as 
life,  before  he  apprehends  it  as  truth.  In  like  manner, 
nature  is  already,  in  its  forms  and  tendencies,  describing 
its  own  design.  Let  us  interrogate  the  great  apparition 
that  shines  so  peacefully  around  us.  Let  us  inquire,  to 
what  end  is  nature? 

All  science  has  one  aim,  namely,  to  find  a  theorjrjof^ 
nature.  We  have  theories  of  races  and  of  functions,  but 
scarcely  yet  a  remote  approach  to  an  idea  of  creation. 
We  are  now  so  far  from  the  road  to  truth  that  religious 
teachers  dispute  and  hate  each  other,  and  speculative  men 
are  esteemed  unsound  and  frivolous.  But  to  a  sound  judg 
ment,  the  most  abstract  truth  is  the  most  practical.  When 
ever  ajirue  theory  appears,  it  will  be  its  own  evidence. 
Its  test"  is,  that  it  will  explain  all  phenomena.  Now  many 
are  thought  not  only  unexplained  but  inexplicable;  as  lan 
guage,  sleep,  madness,  dreams,  beasts,  sex. 

Philosophically  considered,  the  universe  is  composed  of 
Nature    and    the    SouL. .....Strictly    speaking,    therefore,  ~aIT 

that  is  separate  from  us,  all  which  PlnTosophy  distinguishes 
as  the  NOT  ME,  that  is,  both  nature  and  art,  all  other  men 
and  my  own  body,  must  be  ranked  under  this  name,, 
NATURE.  In  enumerating  the  values  of  nature  and  casting 
up  their  sum,  I  shall  use  the  word  in  both  senses;  —  in  its 
common  and  in  its  philosophical  import.  In  inquiries  so 
general  as  our  present  one,  the  inaccuracy  is  not  material; 
no  confusion  of  thought  will  occur.  Nature,  in  the  com 
mon  sense,  refers  to  essences  unchanged  by  man;  space, 
the  air,  the  river,  the  lea£  Art  is  applied  to  the  mixture 
of  his  wiiljrith  the  same  things,  as  in  a  house,, a  canal,  a 
statue,  a  picture.  But  his  operations  taken  together  are 
so  insignificant,  a  little  chipping,  baking,  patching,  and 
washing,  that  in  an  impression  so  grand  as  that  of  the 
world  on  the  human  mind,  they  do  not  vary  the  result. 


NATURE 


CHAPTER   I 

To  go  into  solitude,  a  man  needs  to  retire  as  much  from 
his  chamber  as  from  society.  l_am  not  solitary  whilst 
I  read  and  write,  though  nobody  is  with  me.  But  if  a 
rnan  would  be  alone,  let  him  look  at  the  stars.  The  rays 
that  come  from  those  heavenly  worlds,  will  separate  between 
him  and  what  he  touches.  One  might  think  the  atmosphere 
was  made  transparent  with  this  design,  to  give  man,  in  the 
Jhe^yenly  bodies,  the  perpetual  presence  of  the  sublime. 
Seen  in  the  streets  of  cities,  how  great  they  are!  If  the 
stars  should  appear  one  night  in  a  thousand  years,  how 
would  men  believe  and  adore;  and  preserve  for  many 
generations  the  remembrance  of  the  city  of  God  which  had 
been  shown!  But  every  night  come  out  these  envoys  of 
beauty,  and  light  the  universe  with  their  admonishing 
smile. 

The  stars  awaken  a  certain  reverence,  because  though 
always  present,  they  are  inaccessible;  but  all  natural  ob 
jects  make  a  kindred  impression,  when  the  mind  is  open 
to  their  influence.  Nature  never  wears  a  mean  appear 
ance.  Neither  does  the  wisest  man  extort  her  secret,  and 
lose  his  curiosity  by  rinding  out  all  her  perfection.  Nature 
never  became  a  toy  to  a  wise  spirit.  The  flowers,  the 
animals,  the  mountains,  reflected  the  wisdom  of  his  best 
hour,  as  much  as  they  had  delighted  the  simplicity  of  his 
childhood. 

When  we  speak  of  nature  in  this  manner,  we  have  a 
distinct  but  most  poetical  sense  in  the  mind.  We  mean 
the  integrity  of  .impression  made  by  manifold  natural  ob 
jects.  It  is  this  which  distinguishes  the  stick  of  timber  of 
the  wood-cutter,  from  the  tree  of  the  poet.  The  charming 
landscape  which  I  saw  this  morning,  is  indubitably  made 
up  of  some  twenty  or  thirty  farms.  Miller  owns  this  field, 
Locke  that,  and  Manning  the  woodland  beyond.  But  none 
of  them  owns  the  landscape.  There  is  a  property  in  the 
horizon  which  no  man  has  but  he  whose  eye  can  integrate 
all  the  parts,  that  is,  the  poet.  This  is  the  best  part  of 


4  NATURE 

these  men's  farms,  yet  to  this  their  warranty-deeds  give 
no  title. 

To  speak  truly,  few  adult  persons  can  see  nature.  Most 
persons  do  not  see  the  sun.  At  least  they  have  a  very 
superficial  seeing.  The  sun  illuminates  only  the  eye  of  the 
man,  but  shines  into  the  eye  and  the  heart  of  the  child. 
The  lover  of  nature  is  he  whose  inward  and  outward  senses 
are  still  truly  adjusted  to  each  other;  who  has  retained  the 
spirit  of  infancy  even  into  the  era  of  manhood.  His  inter 
course  with  heaven  and  earth,  becomes  part  of  his  daily 
food.  In  the  presence  of  nature,  a  wild  delight  runs  through 
the  man,  in  spite  of  real  sorrows.  Nature  says  —  he  is 
my  creature,  and  maugre  all  his  impertinent  griefs,  he 
shall  be  glad  with  me.  Not  the  sun  or  the  summer  alone, 
but  every  hour  and  season  yields  its  tribute  of  delight; 
for  every  hour  and  change  corresponds  to  and  authorizes 
a  different  state  of  the  mind,  from  breathless  noon  to  grim 
mest  midnight.  Nature  is  a  setting  that  fits  equally  well 
a  comic  or  a  mourning  piece.  In  good  health,  the  air  is 
a  cordial  of  incredible  virtue.  Crossing  a  bare  common, 
in  snow  puddles,  at  twilight,  under  a  clouded  sky,  without 
having  in  my  thoughts  any  occurrence  of  special  good 
fortune,  I  have  enjoyed  a  perfect  exhilaration.  I  am  glad 
to  the  brink  of  fear.  In  the  woods  too,  a  man  casts  off 
his  years,  as  the  snake  his  slough,  and  at  what  period  soever 
of  life,  always  is  a  child.  \  in  the  woods,  is  perpetual 
youth.  Within  these  plantations  of  God,  a  decorum  and 
sanctity  reign,  a  perennial  festival  is  dressed,  and  the  guest 
sees  not  how  he  should  tire  of  them  in  a  thousand  years. 
In  the  woods,  we  return  to  reason  and  faith.  There  I  feel 
that  nothing  can  befall  me  in  life  —  no  disgrace,  no  calamity 
(leaving  me  my  eyes),  which  nature  cannot  repair.  r~Sfand- 
'ng  on  the  bare  ground  —  my  head  bathed  by  the  blithe 
air,  and  uplifted  into  infinite  space  —  all  mean  egotism 
vanishes.  I  become  a  transparent  eyeball;  I  am  nothing; 

see  all;  the  currents  of  the  Universal  \peing  circulate 
through  me;  I  am  part  or  particle  of  God.  \The  name  of 
/the  nearest  friend  sounds  then  foreign  ancT accidental :  to 
be  brothers,  to  be  acquaintances  —  master  or  servant,  is 


COMMODITY  5 

then  a  trifle  and  a  disturbance.  I  am  the  lover  of  uncon- 
tained  and  immortal  beauty.  In  the  wilderness,  I  find 
something  more  dear  and  connate  than  in  streets  or  vil 
lages.  In  the  tranquil  landscape,  and  especially  in  the 
distant  line  of  the  horizon,  man  beholds  somewhat  as 
beautiful  as  his  own  nature.  / 

The  greatest  delight  which  the  fields  and  woods  minister,  1 
is  the  suggestion  of  an  occult  relation  between  man  and  thej) 
vegetable.    I    am   not   alone   and   unacknowledged.    They 
nod  to  me,  and  I  to  them.    The  waving  of  the  boughs  in 
the  storm,  is  new  to  me  and  old.    It  takes  me  by  surprise, 
and  yet  is  not  unknown.    Its  effect  is  like  that  of  a  higher 
thought   or   a   better   emotion   coming   over   me,   when   I 
deemed  I  was  thinking  justly  or  doing  right. 

Yet  it  is  certain  that  the  power  to  produce  this  delight, 
does  not  reside  in  nature,  but  in  man,  or  in  a  harmony  of 
'Both.    It  is  necessary  to  use  tfiese  pleasures  with  great 
temperance.    For,  nature  is  not  always  tricked  in  holiday 
attire,  but  the  same  scene  which  yesterday  breathed  per-  | 
fume  and  glittered  as  for  the  frolic  of  the  nymphs,  is  over-  \ 
spread  with  melancholy  to-day.    Nature  always  wears  "the^J 
colors  of  the  spirit.    To  a  man  laboring  under  calamity, 
the  heat  of  his  own  fire  hath  sadness  in  it.    Then,  there 
is  a  kind  of  contempt  of  the  landscape  felt  by  him  who  has 
just  lost  by  death  a  dear  friend.    The  sky  is  less  grand  as 
is  shuts  down  over  less  worth  in  the  population. 


CHAPTER  II 

COMMODITY 

WHOEVER  considers  the^fmal^jmuse  of  the  world  will 
discern  ji  multitude  of  uses  that  enter  as  parts  into  that 
result.  They  all  admit  of  being  thrown  into  one  of  the 
following  classes;  Commodity;  Beauty;  Language;  and 
Discipline. 

Under  the  general  name  of  Commodity,  I  rank  all  those 
advantages  which  our  senses  owe  to  nature.  This,  of 


6  NATURE 

course,  is  a  benefit  which  is^  temporary  and  mediate,  not 
ultimate,  like  jts  service,  to  the  soul.    Yet  although  low,  it 
is  perfect  in  its  kind,  and  is  the  only  use  of  nature  which 
all  men  apprehend.    The  misery  of  man  appears  like  child 
ish  petulance,  when  we  explore  the  steady  and  prodigal 
provision  that  has  been  made  for  his  support  and  delight 
on~  this  green  ball  which  floats  him  through  the  heavens. 
What  angels  invented  these  splendid  ornaments,  these  rich 
conveniences,  this  ocean  of  air  above,  this  ocean  of  water 
beneath,  this  firmament  of  earth  between,  this  zodiac  of 
\    lights,  this  tent  of  dropping  clouds,  this  striped  coat  of 
{.climates,  this  fourfold  year?    Beasts,  fire,  water,  stones,  and 
i  corn  serve  him.    The  field  is  at  once  his  floor,  his  work- 
yard,  his  play-ground,  his  garden,  and  his  bed. 

"More  servants  wait  on  man 
,      Than  he'll  take  notice  of."  — 

Nature,  in  its  ministry  to  man,  is  not  only  the  material, 

but   is   also   the   process   and   the    result.    All   the   parts 

incessantly  work  into  each  other's  hands  for  the  profit  of 

man.    The  wind  sows  the  seed;    the  sun  evaporates  the 

/  sea;   the  wind  blows  the  vapor  to  the  field;   the  ice,  on 

,    the  other  side  of  the  planet,  condenses  rain  on  this;   the 

I     rain  feeds  the  plant;  the  plant  feeds  the  animal;  and  thus 

the  endless  circulations  of  the  divine  charity  nourish  man. 

/The  useful  arts  are  reproductions  or  new  combinations 

/by  the  wit  of  man,  of  the  same  natural  benefactors.    He 

^no  longer  waits  for  favoring  gales,  but  by  means  of  steam, 

he  realizes  the  fable  of  bolus's  bag,  and  carries  the  two 

and  thirty  winds  in  the  boiler  of  his  boat.    To  diminish 

friction,  he  paves  the  road  with  iron  bars,  and,  mounting 

a  coach  with  a  ship-load  of  men,  animals,  and  merchandise 

behind  him,  he  darts  through  the  country,  from  town  to 

town,  like  an  eagle  or  a  swallow  through  the  air.    By  the 

aggregate  of  these  aids,  how  is  the  face  of  the  world  changed 

from  the  era  of  Noah  to  that  of  Napoleon!     The  private 

poor  man  jhatk  cities,  ships,  canals,  bridges,  built  for  him. 

He  goes  to  the  post-office,  and  the  human  race  run  on  his 

errands;  to  the  book-shop,  and  the  human  race  read  and 


BEAUTY  7 

write  of  all  that  happens,  for  him;  to  the  court-house,  and 
nations  repair  his  wrongs.  He  sets  his  house  upon  the 
road,  and  the  human  race  go  forth  every  morning,  and 
shovel  out  the  snow,  and  cut  a  path  for  him. 

But  there  is  no  need  of  specifying  particulars  in  this 
class  of  uses.  The  catalogue  is  endless,  and  the  examples 
so  obvious,  that  I  shall  leave  them  to  the  reader's  re 
flection,  with  the  general  remark,  that  this  mercenary  beneA 
fit  is  one  which  has  respect  to  a  farther  good.  A  man  is 
fed,  not  that  he  may  be  fed,  but  that  he  may  work. 


CHAPTER  III 

BEAUTY 

A  NOBLER  want  of  man  is  served  by  nature,  namely,  the 


The  ancient  Greeks   called  the   world    x0^/*05,    beauty. 
Such  is  the  constitution  of  all  things,  or  such  the  plastic/ 
power  of  the  human  eye,  that  the  primary  forms,  as  thej^ 
sky,  the  mountain,  the  tree,  the  animal,  give  us  a  delight  \ 
in  and  for  themselves;   a  pleasure   arising  from  outline,^) 
color,  motion,  and  grouping.    This  seems  partly  owing  ter 
the  eye  itself.    The  eye  is  the  best   of  artists.    By  the 
mutual  action  of  its  structure  and  of  the  laws  of  light,  per 
spective  is  produced,  which  integrates  every  mass  of  ob 
jects,  of  what  character  soever,  into  a  well  colored  and 
shaded  globe,  so  that  where  the  particular  objects  are  mean 
and  unaffecting,  the  landscape  which  they  compose,  is  round 
and  symmetrical.    And  as  the  eye  is  the  best  composer, 
so  light  is  the  first  of  painters.    There  is  no  object  so  foul 
that  intense  light  will  not  make  beautiful.    And  the  stimu 
lus  it  affords  to  the  sense,  and  a  sort  of  infinitude  which 
it  hath,  like  space  and  time,  make  all  matter  gay.    Even 
the  corpse  has  its  own  beauty.    But  beside  this  general 
grace  diffused  over  nature,  almost  all  the  individual  forms 
are  agreeable  to  the  eye,  as  is  proved  by  our  endless  imita- 


8  NATURE 

tions  of  some  of  them,  as  the  acorn,  the  grape,  the  pine- 
cone,  the  wheat-ear,  the  egg,  the  wings  and  forms  of  most 
birds,  the  lion's  claw,  the  serpent,  the  butterfly,  sea-shells, 
flames,  clouds,  buds,  leaves,  and  the  forms  of  many  trees,  as 
the  palm. 

For  better  consideration,  we  may  distribute  the  aspects 
of  Beauty  in  a  threefold  manner. 

£  I/ First,  the  simple  perception  of  natural  forms  is  a  de 
light.  The  influence  of  the  forms  and  actions  in  nature,  is  so 
needful  to  man,  that,  in  its  lowest  functions,  it  seems  to  lie 
on  the  confines  of  commodity  and  beauty.  To  the  body 
and  mind  which  have  been  cramped  by  noxious  work  or 
company,  nature  is  medicinal  and  restores  their  tone.  The 
tradesman,  the  attorney  comes  out  of  the  din  and  craft 
of  the  street,  and  sees  the  sky  and  the  woods,  and  is  a  man 
again.  In  their  eternal  calm,  he  finds  himself.  The  health 
of  the  eye  seems  to  demand  a  horizon.  We  are  never  tired, 
so  long  as  we  can  see  far  enough. 

But  in  other  hours,  Nature  satisfies  by  its  loveliness,  and 
without  any  mixture  of  corporeal  benefit.  I  see  the  spec 
tacle  of  morning  from  the  hilltop  over  against  my  house, 
from  daybreak  to  sunrise,  with  emotions  which  an  angel 
might  share.  The  long  slender  bars  of  cloud  float  like  fishes 
in  the  sea  of  crimson  light.  From  the  earth  as  a  shore, 
I  look  out  into  that  silent  sea.  I  seem  to  partake  its  rapid 
transformations:  the  active  enchantment  reaches  my  dust, 
and  I  dilate  and  conspire  with  the  morning  wind.  How 
does  Nature  deify  us  with  a  few  and  cheap  elements,?  Give 
me  health  and  a  day,  and  I  will  make  the  pomp  of  em 
perors  ridiculous.  The  dawn  is  my  Assyria;  the  sun-set 
and  moon-rise  my  Paphos,  and  unimaginable  realms  of 
faerie;  broad  noon  shall  be  my  England  of  the  senses  and 
the  understanding;  the  night  shall  be  my  Germany  of  mystic 
philosophy  and  dreams. 

Not  less  excellent,  except  for  our  less  susceptibility  in  the 
afternoon,  was  the  charm,  last  evening,  of  a  January  sun 
set.  The  western  clouds  divided  and  subdivided  themselves 
into  pink  flakes  modulated  with  tints  of  unspeakable  soft 
ness;  and  the  air  had  so  much  life  and  sweetness,  that  it 
was  a  pain  to  come  within  doors.  What  was  it  that  nature 


BEAUTY  9 

would  say?  Was  there  no  meaning  in  the  live  repose  of 
the  valley  Behind  the  mill,  and  which  Homer  or  Shake 
speare  could  not  re-form  for  me  in  words?  The  leafless 
trees  become  spires  of  flame  in  the  sunset,  with  the  blue 
east  for  their  back-ground,  and  the  stars  of  the  dead  calices 
of  flowers,  and  every  withered  stem  and  stubble  rimed  with 
frost,  contribute  something  to  the  mute  music. 

The  inhabitants  of  cities  suppose  that  the  country  land 
scape  is  pleasant  only  half  the  year.  I  please  myself  with 
the  graces  of  the  winter  scenery,  and  believe  that  we  are 
as  much  touched  by  it  as  by  the  genial  influences  of  summer.. 
To  the  attentive  eye,  each  moment  of  the  year  has  its 
own  beauty,  and  in  the  same  field,  it  beholds,  every 
hour,  a  picture  which  was  never  seen  before,  and 
which  shall  never  be  seen  again.  The  heavens  change 
every  moment,  and  reflect  their  glory  or  gloom  on 
the  plains  beneath.  The  state  of  the  crop  in  the 
surrounding  farms  alters  the  expression  of  the  earth 
from  week  to  week.  The  succession  of  native  plants  in 
the  pastures  and  roadside,  which  makes  the  silent  clock  by 
which  time  tells  the  summer  hours,  will  make  even  the 
divisions  of  the  day  sensible  to  a  keen  observer.  The 
tribes  of  birds  and  insects,  like  the  plants  punctual  to  their 
time,  follow  each  other,  and  the  year  has  room  for  all. 
By  water  courses,  the  variety  is  greater.  In  July,  the 
blue  pontederia  or  pickerel-weed  blooms  in  large  beds  in 
the  shallow  parts  of  our  pleasant  river,  and  swarms  with 
yellow  butterflies  in  continual  motion.  Art  cannot  rival 
this  pomp  of  purple  and  gold.  Indeed  the  river  is  a  per 
petual  gala,  and  boasts  each  month  a  new  ornament. 

But  this  beauty  of  Nature  which  is  seen  and  felt  as 
beauty,  is  the  least  part.  The  shows  of  day,  the  dewy 
morning,  the  rainbow,  mountains,  orchards  in  blossom,  stars, 
moonlight,  shadows  in  still  water,  and  the  like,  if  top  eagerly 
hunted,  become  shows  merely,  and  mock  us  with  their 
unreality.  Go  out  of  the  house  to  see  the  moon,  and  't  is 
mere  tinsel;  it  will  not  please  as  when  its  light  shines  upon 
your  necessary  journey.  The  beauty  that  shimmers  in  the 
yellow  afternoons  of  October,  who  ever  could  clutch  it? 


10  NATURE 


i 


Go  forth  to  find  it,  and  it  is  gone:  't  is  only  a  mirage  as 
yoj4  .look  from  the  windows  of  diligence. 

2.  The  presence  of  a  higher,  namely,  of  the  spiritual  ele 
ment  l]T~essehtial  to  its  perfection.  The  high  and  divino 
beauty  which  can  be  loved  without T  effeminacy^  'is"  that 
which  is  found  in  combination  with  the  human  will*  Beauty 
is  the  mark  God  sets  upon  virtue.  Every  natural  action 
is  graceful.  Every  heroic  act  is  also"  decent,  and  causes 
the  place  and  the  bystanders  to  shine.  We  are  taught  by 
great  actions  that  the  universe  is  the  property  of  every 
individual  in  it.  Every  rational  creature  has  all  nature 
for  his  dowry  and  estate.  It  is  his,  if  he  will.  He  may 
divest  himself  of  it,  he  may  creep  into  a  corner,  and  abdi 
cate  his  kingdom,  as  most  men  do,  but  he  is  entitled  to  the 
world  by  his  constitution.  In  proportion  to  the  energy  of 
his  thought  and  will,  he  takes  up  the  world  into  himself. 
"All  those  things  for  which  men  plough,  build,  or  sail, 
obey  virtue";  said  Sallust.  "The  winds  and  waves/'  said 
Gibbon,  "are  always  on  the  side  of  the  ablest  navigators." 
.go  are  the  sun  and  moon  and  all  the  stars  of  heaven. 
When  a  noble  act  is  done  —  perchance  in  a  scene  of  great 
natural  beauty;  when  Leonidas  and  his  three  hundred 
martyrs  consume  one  day  in  dying,  and  the  sun  and  moon 
come  each  and  look  at  them  once  in  the  steep  defile 
of  Thermopylae;  when  Arnold  Winkelried,  in  the  high 
Alps,  under  the  shadow  of  the  avalanche,  gathers  in  his 
side  a  sheaf  of  Austrian  spears  to  break  the  line  for  his 
comrades;  are  not  these  heroes  entitled  to  add  the  beauty 
of  the  scene  to  the  beauty  of  the  deed?  When  the  bark  of 
Columbus  nears  the  shore  of  America;  before  it,  the  beach 
lined  with  savages,  fleeing  out  of  all  their  huts  of  cane; 
the  sea  behind;  and  the  purple  mountains  of  the  Indian 
Archipelago  around,  can  we  separate  the  man  from  the  liv 
ing  picture?  Does  not  the  New  World  clothe  his  form  with 
her  palm-groves  and  savannahs  as  fit  drapery?  Ejer_does. 
natural  beauty  steal  in  like  air,  and  envelop  great,  actions. 
When  Sir  Harry  Vane  was  dragged  up  the  Tower-hill,  sit 
ting  on  a  sled,  to  suffer  death,  as  the  champion  of  the 
English  laws,  one  of  the  multitude  cried  out  to  him,  "You 


BEAUTY  11 

never  sate  on  so  glorious  a  seat."  Charles  II.,  to  intimidate 
the  citizens  of  London,  caused  the  patriot  Lord  Russel  to 
be  drawn  in  an  open  coach,  through  the  principal  streets 
of  the  city,  on  his  way  to  the  scaffold.  "But,"  his  biog 
rapher  says,  "the  multitude  imagined  they  saw  liberty  and 
virtue  sitting  by  his  side."  In  private  places,  among  sorcjfd 
objects,  an  act  of  truth  or  heroism  seems  at  once  to  draw 
to  itself  the  sky  as  its  temple,  the  sun  as  its  candle.  Nature 
stretcheth  out  her  arms  to  embrace  man,  only  let  his 
"thoughts  be  of  equal  greatness.  Willingly  does  she  follow 
his  steps  with  the  rose  and  the  violet,  and  bend  her  lines 
of  grandeur  and  grace  to  the  decoration  of  her  darling 
child.  Only  let  his  thoughts  be  of  equal  scope,  and  the 
frame  will  suit  the  picture.  A  virtuous  man  is  in  unison 
with  her  works,  and  makes  the  central  figure  of  the 
visible  sphere.  Homer,  Pindar,  Socrates,  Phocion,  associate 
themselves  fitly  in  our  memory  with  the  geography  and 
climate  of  Greece.  The  visible  heavens  and  earth  sympa 
thize  with  Jesus.  And  in  common  life,  whosoever  has  seen 
a  person  of  powerful  character  and  happy  genius,  will 
have  remarked  how  easily  he  took  all  things  along  with 
him,  —  the  persons,  the  opinions,  and  the  day,  and  nature 
became  ancillary  to  a  man. 

r  There  is  still  another  aspect  under  which  the  beauty 
1he  world  may  be  viewed,  namely,  as  it  becomes  an 
object  of  the  intellect.  ^Beside  the  relation  of  things  to 
virtue,,  they  have  a  relation  to  thought.  The  intellect 
searches  out  the  absolute  order  of  things  as  they  stand  in 
the  mind  of  God,  and  without  the  colors  of  affection.  _The 
intellectual  and  the— acliye  powers  pppm  to  si i creed  *efM*R' 
other,  and  Ifie  exclusive  activity  of  the  one,  generates  the 
exclusive  activity  of  the  other.  There  is  something  un-" 
friendly  in  each  to  the  other,  but  they  are  like  the  alter 
nate  periods  of  feeding  and  working  in  animals;  each  pre 
pares  and  will  be  followed  by  the  other.  Therefore  does 
beauty,  which,  ^relation  to  actions,  as  we  have  seen,  comes 
unsought,  and  comes  because  it  is  unsought,  remain  for 
the  apprehension, and  pursuit  of  the  intellect;  and  then 
again,  in  its  turn,  of  the  active  power.  Nothing  divine  dies. 


12  NATURE 

All  good  is  eternally  reproductive.  The  beauty  of  nature 
re-forms  itself  in  the  mind,  and  not  for  barren  contempla 
tion,  but  for  new  creation. 

men  are  in  some  degree  impressed  by  the  face  of  the 
world;  some  men  even  to  delight.  This  Ipve  of  beauty  is 
Taste.  Others  have  the  same  love  in  such  excess,  that, 
not  content  with  admiring,  they  seek  to  embody  it  in 
forms.  The  creation  of  beauty  is  Art. 

The  production  of  a  work  of  art  throws  a  light  upon  the 
mystery  of  humanity.  A  work  of  art  is  an  abstract  or 
epitome  of  the  world.  It  is  the  result  or  expression  of 
nature,  in  miniature.  For,  although  the  works  of  nature  are 
innumerable  and  all  different,  the  result  or  the  expression 
of  them  all  is  similar  and  single.  Nature  is  a  sea  of  forms 
radically  alike  and  even  unique.  A  leaf,  a  sun-beam,  a 
landscape,  the  ocean,  make  an  analogous  impression  on  the 
mind.  What  is  common  to  them  all  —  that  perfectness 
and  harmony,  is  beauty.  The  standard  of  beauty  is  the 
entire  circuit  of  natural  forms^the  totality  of  nature; 
'which  the  Italians  expressed  by  defining  beauty  "il  phi  nelT 
Nothing  is  quite  beautiful  alone:  nothing  but  is 
utftul  in  the  whole.  A  single  object  is  only  so  far  beau 
tiful  as  it  suggests  this  universal  grace.  The  poet,  the 
painter,  the  sculptor,  the  musician,  the  architect,  seek  each 
to  concentrate  this  radiance  of  the  world  on  one  point,  and 
each  in  his  several  work  to  satisfy  the  love  of  beauty  which 
stimulates  him  to  produce.  Thus  is  Art,  a  nature  passed 
through  the  alembic  of  man.  Thus  in  art,  does  nature  work 
through  the  will  of  a  man  filled  with  the  beauty  of  her 
first  works. 

The  world  thus  exists  to  the  soul  to  satisfy  the  desire 
of  beauty.  This  element  I  call  an  ultimate  end.  No 
reason  can  be  asked  or  given  why  the  soul  seeks  beauty. 
Beauty,  in  its  largest  and  profoundest  sense,  is  one  expres 
sion  for  the  universe.  God  is  the  all-fair.  Truth,  and 
goodness,  and  beauty,  are  but  different  faces  of  the  same 
All.  But  beauty  in  nature  is  not  ultimate.  It  is  the  herald 
of  inward  and  eternal  beauty,  and  is  not  alone  a  solid  and 
atisfactory  good.  It  must  stand  as  a  part,  and  not  as  yet 
the  last  or  highest  expression  of  the  final  cause  of  Nature. 


LANGUAGE  13 

CHAPTER   IV  5    '* 

LANGUAGE 

LANGUAGE   is   a   third   use   which   Nature   subserves   to 
man.     Nature  is  the  vehicle  of  thought,  and  in  a  simple, 
7Touble,  and  threefold  degree. 
"/*!.  Words  are  signs  of  natural  facts. 
/    2.  Particular    natural    facts    are   symbols    of   particular 
(spiritual  facts. 
I   3^  Nature  is  the  symbol  of  spirit. 

^JJWords  are  signs  of  natural  facts.  The  .use  of  .natural 
Jjistory  is  to  give_  us_  aid  _  in^sujgiemai^^ 
of  the  outer  creation,  to  give  us  language  for  the~T5eings 
and  changes  of  the  inward  creation.  Every  word  which 
is_used  to  express  a  moral  or  intellectual  fact,  if  traced 
to  its  root,  is  found  to  be  borrowed  from  some  material 
appearance.  Right  means  straight;  wrong  means  twisted. 
Spirit  primarily  means  wind; (transgression,  the  crossing 
of  a  line;  supercilious,  the  raising  of  the  eyebrow.  We  say 
the  heart  to  express  emotion,  the  head  to  denote  thought; 
and  thought  and  emotion  are  words  borrowed  from  sensible 
things,  and  now  appropriated  to  spiritual  nature.  Most  of 
the  process  by  which  this  transformation  is  made,  is  hidden 
from  us  in  the  remote  time  when  language  was  framed;  but 
the  same  tendency  may  be  daily  observed  in  children. 
Children  and  savages  use  only  nouns  or  names  of  things, 
which  they  convert  into  verbs,  and  apply  to  analogous 
mental  acts. 

2.  But  this  origin  of  all  words  that  convey  a  spiritual 
import  —  so  conspicuous  a  fact  in  the  history  of  language 
—  is  .our  least,  debt  to  nature.  It  is  not  words  only  that 
are  emblematic;  it  is  things  which  are  emblematic.  Every 
natural  fact  is  a  symbol  of  some  spiritual  fact.  Every 
appearance  in  nature  corresponds  to  some  state  of  the  mind, 
and  that  state  of  the  mind  can  only  be  described  by  pre 
senting  that  natural  appearance  as  its  picture.  An  en 
raged  man  is  a  lion,  a  cunning  man  is  a  fox,  a  firm  man  is 


14  NATURE 

a  rock,  a  learned  man  is  a  torch.  A  lamb  is  innocence;  a 
snake  is  subtle  spite;  flowers  express  to  us  the  delicate 
affections.  Light  and  darkness  are  our  familiar  expression 
for  knowledge  and  ignorance;  and  heat  for  love.  Visible 
distance  behind  and  before  us,  is  respectively  our  image  of 
memory  and  hope. 

Who  looks  upon  a  river  in  a  meditative  hour,  and  is 
not  reminded  of  the  flux  of  all  things?  Throw  a  stone 
into  the  stream,  and  the  circles  that  propagate  themselves 
are  the  beautiful  type  of  all  influence.  Man  is  conscious 
of  a  universal  soul  within  or  behind  his  individual  life, 
wherein,  as  in  a  firmament,  the  natures  of  Justice,  .Trujli, 
Love,  Freedom,  arise  and  shine.  This  universal  soul,,  he 
calls  Reason,:  it  is  not  mine,  or  thine,  or  his,  but  we  are 
its;  .we  are  its  property  and  men.  And  the  blue  sky  in  which 
the  private  earth  is  buried,  Jlie^  sky  with  its  eternal  calm, 
and  full  of  everlasting  orbs,  is  the  type  of  Reason.  _That 
.which,  intellectually  considered,  we  call  Reason,  considered 
in  relation  .to,  nature,  we  call  Spirit.  Spirit  is  the  Create*. 
Spirit  hath  life  in  itself.  And  man  in  all  ages  and  countries, 
embodies  it  in  his  language,  as  the  FATHER. 

It  is  easily  seen  that  there  is  nothing  lucky  or  capricious 
in  these  analogies,  but  that  they  are  constant,  and  pervade 
nature,  These  are  not  the  dreams  of  a  few  pdets7  here  "and 
there,  but  man  is  an  analogist,  and  studies  relations  in  all 
objects.  He  is  placed  in  the  center  of  beings,  and  a  ray 
of  relations  passes  from  every  other  being  to  him.  And 
neither  can  man  be  understood  without  these  objects, 
nor  these  objects  without  man.  All  the  facts  in  natural 
history  taken  by  themselves,  have  no  value,  but  are  barren, 
like  a  single  sex.  But  marry  it  to  human  history,  and 
it  is  full  of  life.  Whole  Floras,  all  Linnseus's  and  Buffon's 
volumes,  are  dry  catalogues  of  facts;  but  the  most  trivial 
of  these  facts,  the  habit  of  a  plant,  the  organs,  or  work, 
or  noise  of  an  insect,  applied  to  the  illustration  of  a  fact 
in  intellectual  philosophy,  or  in  any  way  associated  to 
human  nature,  affects  us  in  the  most  lively  and  agreeable 
manner.  The  seed  of  a  plant  —  to  what  affecting  analogies 
in  the  nature  of  man,  is  that  little  fruit  made  use  of,  in 


LANGUAGE  15 

all  discourse,  up  to  the  voice  of  Paul,  who  calls  the  human 
corpse  a  seed  —  "It  is  sown  a  natural  body;  it  is  raised  a 
spiritual  body."  The  motion  of  the  earth  round  its  axis, 
and  round  the  sun,  makes  the  day,  and  the  year.  These 
are  certain  amounts  of  brute  light  and  heat.  But  is  there 
no  intent  of  an  analogy  between  man's  life  and  the  seasons? 
And  do  the  seasons  gain  no  grandeur  or  pathos  from  that 
analogy?  The  instincts  of  the  ant  are  very  unimportant, 
considered  as  the  ant's:  but  the  moment  a  ray  of  relation 
is  seen  to  extend  from  it  to  man,  and  the  little  drudge  is 
seen  to  be  a  monitor,  a  little  body  with  a  mighty  heart, 
then  all  its  habits,  even  that  said  to  be  recently  observed, 
that  it  never  sleeps,  become  sublime. 

Because  of  this  radical  correspondence  between  visible 
things  and  human  thoughts,  savages,  who  have  only  what  is 
necessary,  converse  in  figures.  As  we  go  back  in  history, 
iangimge  becomes  more  picturesque,  until  its  infancy,  when 
it  is  all  poetry;  or  all  spiritual  facts  are  represented  by 
natural  symbols.  The  same  symbols  are  found  to  m;ike 
the  original  elements  of  all  languages.  It  has  moreover  [ 
been  observed,  that  the  idioms  of  all* languages  approach 
each  other  in  passages  of  the  greatest  eloquence  and  power.  ' 
And  as  this  is  the  first  language,  so  is  it  the  last.  This 
immediate  dependence  of  language  upon  nature,  this  con 
version  of  an  outward  phenomenon  into  a  type  of  somewhat 
in  human  life,  never  loses  its  power  to  affect  us.  It  is  this 
which  gives  that  piquancy  to  the  conversation  of  a  strong- 
natured  farmer  or  back-woodsman,  which  all  men  relish. 

A  man's  power  to  connect  his  thought  with  its  proper  I 
symbol,  and  so  to  utter  it,  depends  on  the  simplicity  of  his  f 
character,  that  is,  upon  his  love  of  truth,  and  his  desire  to  | 
communicate  it  without  loss.    The  corruption  of  man  is  1 
followed  by  the  corruption  of  language.    When  simplicity 
of  character  and  the  sovereignty  of  ideas  is  broken  up 
by  the  prevalence  of  secondary  desires,  the  desire  of  riches, 
of  pleasure,  of  power,  and  of  praise  —  and  duplicity  and 
falsehood  take  place  of  simplicity  and  truth,  the  power 
over  nature  as  an  interpreter  of  the  will,  is  in  a  degree 
lost;  new  imagery  ceases  to  be  created,  and  old  words  are 


16  NATURE 

perverted  to  stand  for  things  which  are  not;  a  paper  cur 
rency  is  employed,  when  there  is  no  bullion  in  the  vaults. 
In  due  time,  the  fraud  is  manifest,  and  words  lose  all  power 
to  stimulate  the  understanding  or  the  affections.  Hundreds 
of  writers  may  be  found  in  every  long-civilized  nation,  who 
for  a  short  time  believe,  and  make  others  believe,  that 
they  see  and  utter  truths,  who  do  not  of  themselves  clothe 
one  thought  in  its  natural  garment,  but  who  feed  uncon 
sciously  on  the  language  created  by  the  primary  writers  of 
the  country,  those,  namely,  who  hold  primarily  on  nature. 

But  wise  men  pierce  this  rotten  diction  and  fasten  words 
again  to  visible  things;  so  that  picturesque  language  is  at 
once  a  commanding  certificate  that  he  who  employs  it,  is 
a  man  in  alliance  with  truth  and  God.  The  moment  our 
discourse  rises  above  the  ground  line  of  familiar  facts, 
and  is  inflamed  with  passion  or  exalted  by  thought,  it 
clothes  itself  in  images.  A  man  conversing  in  earnest,  if 
he  watch  his  intellectual  processes,  will  find  that  a  material 
image,  more  or  less  luminous,  arises  in  his  mind,  cotempora- 
neous  with  every  thought,  which  furnishes  the  vestment 
of  the  thought.  Hence,  good  writing  and  brilliant  dis 
course  are  perpetual  allegories.  This  imagery  is  sponta 
neous.  It  is  the  blending  of  experience  with  the  present 
action  of  the  mind.  It  is  proper  creation.  It  is  the  work 
ing  of  the  Original  Cause  through  the  instruments  he  has 
already  made. 

These  facts  may  suggest  the  advantage  which  the  country- 
life  possesses  for  a  powerful  mind,  over  the  artificial  and 
curtailed  life  of  cities.  We  know  more  from  nature  than 
we  can  at  will  communicate.  Its  light  flows  into  the  mind 
evermore,  and  we  forget  its  presence.  The  poet,  the  orator, 
bred  in  the  woods,  whose  senses  have  been  nourished  by 
their  fair  and  appeasing  changes,  year  after  year,  without 
design  and  without  heed  —  shall  not  lose  their  lesson 
altogether,  in  the  roar  of  cities  or  the  broil  of  politics. 
Long  hereafter,  amidst  agitation  and  terror  in  natural 
councils  —  in  the  hour  of  revolution  —  these  solemn  images 
shall  reappear  in  their  morning  lustre,  as  fit  symbols  and 
words  of  the  thoughts  which  the  passing  events  shall 


LANGUAGE  17 

awaken.  At  the  call  of  a  noble  sentiment,  again  the  woods 
wave,  the  pines  murmur,  the  river  rolls  and  shines,  and  the 
cattle  low  upon  the  mountains,  as  he  saw  and  heard  them  in 
his  infancy.  And  with  these  forms,  the  spells  of  persua 
sion,  the  keys  of  power  are  put  into  his  hands. 
^jQjYe  are  thus  assisted  by  natural  ^objects  in  the  expres 
sion  of  particular  meanings.  But  how  great  a  language  to 
convey  such  pepper-corn  informations!  Did  it  need  such 
noble  races  of  creatures,  this  profusion  of  forms,  this  host 
of  orbs  in  heaven,  to  furnish  man  with  the  dictionary  and 
grammar  of  his  municipal  speech?  Whilst  we  use  this 
grand  cipher  to  expedite  the  affairs  of  our  pot  and  kettle, 
we  feel  that  we  have  not  yet  put  it  to  its  use,  neither  are 
able.  We  are  like  travelers  using  the  cinders  of  a  volcano 
to  roast  their  eggs.  Whilst  we  see  that  it  always  stands 
ready  to  clothe  what  we  would  say,  we  cannot  avoid  the 
question,  whether  the  characters  are  not  significant  of  them 
selves.  Have  mountains,  and  waves,  and  skies,  no  signifi 
cance  but  what  we  consciously  give  them,  when  we  employ 
them  as  emblems  of  our  thoughts?  The  world  is  emblem 
atic.  Parts  of  speech  are  metaphors,  because  the  whole 
of  nature  is  a  metaphor,  of  the  human  mind.  The  laws 
of  moral  nature  answer  to  those  o£  matter  as  face  to  face 
in  a  glass.  "The  visible  world  and  the  relation  of  its 
parts,  is  the  dial  plate  of  the  invisible."  The  axioms  of 
physics  translate  the  laws  of  ethics.  Thus,  "the  whole  is 
greater  than  its  part";  "reaction  is  equal  to  action";  "the 
smallest  weight  may  be  made  to  lift  the  greatest,  the  differ 
ence  of  weight  being  compensated  by  time";  and  many 
the  like  propositions,  which  have  an  ethical  as  well  as 
physical  sense.  These  propositions  have  a  much  more  ex 
tensive  and  universal  sense  when  applied  to  human  life, 
than  when  confined  to  technical  use. 

In  like  manner,  the  memorable  words  of  history,  and 
the  proverbs  of  nations,  consist  usually  of  a  natural  fact, 
selected  as  a  picture  or  parable  of  a  moral  truth.' "Thus; 
A  rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss ;  A  Bird  in  the  hand  is  worth 
two  in  the  bush;  A  cripple  in  the  right  way,  will  beat  a 
racer  in  the  wrong;  Make  hay  while  the  sun  shines;  'T  is 


18  NATURE 

hard  to  carry  a  full  cup  even;  Vinegar  is  the  son  of  wine; 
The  last  ounce  broke  the  camel's  back;  Long-lived  trees 
make  roots  first; — and  the  like.  In  their  primary  sense 
these  are  trivial  facts;  but  we  repeat  them  for  the  vUltle 
of  their  analogical  import.  What  is  true  of  proverbs,  is 
true  of  all  fables,  parables,  and  allegories. 

This  relation  between  the  mind  and  matter  is  not  fan 
cied  by  some  poet,  but  stands  in  the  will  of  God,  and  so 
is  free  to  be  known  by  all  men.  It  appears  to  men,  or  it 
does  not  appear.  When  in  fortunate  hours  we  ponder  this 
miracle,  the  wise  man  doubts,  if,  at  all  other  times,  he  is 
not  blind  and  deaf; 

"Can  these  things  be, 

And  overcome  us  like  a  summer's  cloud 
Without  our  special  wonder?" 

for  the  universe  becomes  transparent,  and  the  light  of 
higher  laws  than  its  own,  shines  through  it.  It  is  the 
standing  problem  which  has  exercised  the  wonder  and  the 
study  of  every  fine  genius  since  the  world  began;  from 
the  era  of  the  Egyptians  and  the  Brahmins,  to  that  of 
Pythagoras,  of  Plato,  of  Bacon,  of  Leibnitz,  of  Sweden- 
borg.  There  sits  the  gphinx  at  the  roadside,  and  from 
age  to  age,  as  each  prophet  comes  by,  he  tries  his  fortune 
at  reading  her  riddle.  There  seems  to  be  a  necessity  in 
spirit  to  manifest  itself  in  material  forms  ;jand  day  and  night, 
riyer_  and  storm,  beast  and  biro^acid  "and  alkali,  pre-exist 
in  necessary  Ideas  in  the  mind  of  God,  and  are  what  they 
are  by  virtue  of  preceding  affections,  in  the  world  of 
spirit.  A  Fact  is  the  end.  or  last  issue  of  spirit.  The 
visible  creation  is  the  terminus  or  the  circumference  of 
the  invisible  world.  "Material  objects,"  said  a  French 
philosopher,  "are  necessarily  kinds  of  sconce,  of  the  sub 
stantial  thoughts  of  the  Creator,  which  must  always  pre 
serve  an  exact  relation  to  their  first  origin;  in  other  words, 
visible  nature  must  have  a  spiritual  and  moral  side." 

This  doctrine  is  abstruse,  and  though  the  images  of 
garments,  "scoria, "  "mirror,"  etc.,  may  stimulate  the  fancy, 
we  must  summon  the  aid  of  subtler  and  more  vital  ex- 


DISCIPLINE 


4* 


positors  to  make  it  plain.  "Every  scripture  is  to  be  inter 
preted  by  the  same  spirit  which  gave  it  forth"  —  is  the 
fundamental  law  of  criticism.  A  life  in  harmony  with 
^naturej  _the  love  of  truth  and  of  virtue,  will  purge  the  eyes 
to  understand  her  text.  By  degrees  we  may  come  to  know 
the  primitive  sense  of  the  permanent  objects  of  nature,  so 
that  the  world  shall  be  to  us  an  open  book,  and  every  form 
significant  of  its  hidden  life  and  final  cause. 

A  new  interest  surprises  us,  whilst,  under  the  view  now 
suggested,  we  contemplate  the  fearful  extent  and  multitude 
of  objects;  since  "every  object  rightly  seen,  unlocks  a  new 
faculty  of  the  soul."  That  which  was  unconscious  truth, 
becomes,  when  interpreted  and  defined  in  an  object,  a  part 
of  the  domain  of  knowledge  —  a  new  weapon  in  the  maga 
zine  of  power. 


CHAPTER  V 

DISCIPLINE 

IN  view  of  the  significance  of  nature,  we  arrive  at  once 
at  a  new  fact,  that  nature  is  a  discipline.  This  use  of  the 
world  includes  the  preceding  uses,  as  parts  of  itself. 

Space,  time,  society,  labor,  climate,  food,  locomotion,  the 
animals,  the  mechanical  forces,  give  us  sincerest  lessons,  day 
by  day,  whose  meaning  is  unlimited.  They  educate  both 
the  Understanding  and  the  Reason.  Every  property  of 
matter  is  a  school  for  the  understanding  —  its  solidity  or 
resistance,  its  inertia,  its  extension,  its  figure,  its  divisibility. 
The  understanding  adds,  divides,  combines,  measures,  and 
finds  nutriment  and  room  for  its  activity  in  this  worthy 
scene.  Meantime,  Reason  transfers  all  these  lessons  into 
its  own  world  of  thought,  by  perceiving  the  analogy  that 
marries  Matter  and  Mind. 

1.  Nature  is  a  discipline  of  the  understanding  in  intellec 
tual  truths.  Our  dealing  with  sensible  objects  is  a  constant 
exercise  in  the  necessary  lessons  of  difference,  of  likeness, 
of  order,  of  being  and  seeming,  of  progressive  arrangement;; 


20  NATURE 

of  ascent  from  particular  to  general;  of  combination  to 
one  end  of  manifold  forces.  Proportioned  to  the  impor 
tance  of  the  organ  to  be  formed,  is  the  extreme  care  with 
which  its  tuition  is  provided  —  a  care  pretermitted  in  no 
single  case.  What  tedious  training,  day  after  day,  year 
after  year,  never  ending,  to  form  the  common  sense;  what 
continual  reproduction  of  annoyances,  inconveniences,  di 
lemmas;  what  rejoicing  over  us  of  little  men;  what  dis 
puting  of  prices,  what  reckonings  of  interest  —  and  all  to 
form  the  Hand  of  the  mind  —  to  instruct  us  that  "good 
thoughts  are  no  better  than  good  dreams,  unless  they  be 
executed ! " 

The  same  good  office  is  performed  by  Property  and  its 
filial  systems  of  debt  and  credit.  Debt,  grinding  debt, 
whose  iron  face  the  widow,  the  orphan,  and  the  sons  of 
genius  fear  and  hate  —  debt,  which  consumes  so  much  time, 
which  so  cripples  and  disheartens  a  great  spirit  with  cares 
that  seems  so  base,  is  a  preceptor  whose  lessons  cannot  be 
foregone,  and  js  needed  most  by  those  who  suffer  from  it 
most.  Moreover,  proper tyT^wlnclThas  been  well  compared 
to  snow  —  "if  it  fall  level  to-day,  it  will  be  blown  into 
drifts  to-morrow"  —  is  the  surface  action  of  internal  ma 
chinery,  like  the  index  on  the  face  of  a  clock.  Whilst  now 
it  is  the  gymnastics  of  the  understanding,  it  is  hiving  in 
the  foresight  of  the  spirit,  experience  in  profounder  laws. 

The  whole  character  and  fortune  of  the  individual  are 
affected  by  the  least  inequalities  in  the  culture  of  the 
understanding;  for  example,  in  the  perception  of  differences. 
Therefore  is  Space,  and  therefore  Time,  that  man  may  know 
that  things  are  not  huddled  and  lumped,  but  sundered  and 
individual.  A  bell  and  a  plough  have  each  their  use,  and 
neither  can  do  the  office  of  the  other.  Water  is  good  to 
drink,  coal  to  burn,  wool  to  wear;  but  wool  cannot  be 
drunk,  nor  water  spun,  nor  coal  eaten.  The  wise  man 
shows  his  wisdom  in  separation,  in  gradation,  and  his  scale 
of  creatures  and  of  merits  is  as  wide  as  nature.  The  foolish 
have  no  range  in  their  scale,  but  suppose  every  man  is 
as  every  other  man.  What  is  not  good  they  call  the  worst, 
and  what  is  not  hateful  they  call  the  best. 


DISCIPLINE  21 

In  like  manner,  what  good  heed,  nature  forms  in  us! 
She  pardons  no  mistakes.  Her  yea  is  yea,  and  her  nay, 
nay. 

The  first  steps  in  Agriculture,  Astronomy,  Zoology  (those 
first  steps  which  the  farmer,  the  hunter,  and  the  sailor 
take),  teach  that  nature's  dice  are  always  loaded;  that 
in  her  heaps  and  rubbish  are  concealed  sure  and  useful 
results. 

How  calmly  and  genially  the  mind  apprehends  one  after 
another  the  laws  of  physics!  What  noble  emotions  dilate 
the  mortal  as  he  enters  into  the  counsels  of  the  creation, 
and  feels  by  knowledge  the  privilege  to  BE!  His  insight 
refines  him.  The  beauty  of  nature  shines  in  his  own  breast. 
Man  is  greater  that  he  can  see  this,  and  the  universe  less, 
because  Time  and  Space  relations  vanish  as  laws  are  known. 

Here  again  we  are  impressed  and  even  daunted  by  the 
immense  Universe  to  be  explored.  "What  we  know,  is  a 
point  to  what  we  do  not  know."  Open  any  recent  journal 
of  science,  and  weigh  the  problems  suggested  concerning 
Light,  Heat,  Electricity,  Magnetism,  Physiology,  Geology, 
and  judge  whether  the  interest  of  natural  science  is  likely 
to  be  soon  exhausted. 

Passing  by  many  particulars  of  the  discipline  of  nature, 
we  must  not  omit  to  specify  two. 

The  exercise  of  the  Will  or  the  lesson  of  power  is  taught 
in  every  event.  From  the  child's  successive  possession  of 
his  several  senses  up  to  the  hour  when  he  saith,  "Thy  will 
be  done!"  he  is  learning  the  secret,  that  he  can  reduce 
under  his  will,  not  only  particular  events,  but  great  classes, 
nay  the  whole  series  of  events,  and  so  conform  all  facts 
to  his  character.  Nature  is  thoroughly  mediate.  It  is 
made  to  serve.  It  receives  the  dominion  of  man  as  meekly 
as  the  ass  on  which  the  Saviour  rode.  It  offers  all  its 
kingdoms  to  man  as  the  raw  material  which  he  may  mould 
into  what  is  useful.  Man  is  never  weary  of  working  it  up. 
He  forges  the  subtile  and  delicate  air  into  wise  and  melodi 
ous  words,  and  gives  them  wing  as  angels  of  persuasion 
and  command.  One  after  another,  his  victorious  thought 
comes  up  with  and  reduces  all  things,  until  the  world  be- 


22  NATURE 

comes,  at  last,  only  a  realized  will  —  the  double  of  the  man. 

2.  Sensible  objects  conform  to  the  premonitions  of  Rea 
son  and  reflect  the  conscience.  All  things  are  moral;  and 
in  their  boundless  changes  have  an  unceasing  reference  to 
spiritual  nature.  Therefore  is  nature  glorious  with  form, 
color,  and  motion,  that  every  globe  in  the  remotest  heaven; 
every  chemical  change  from  the  rudest  crystal  up  to  the 
laws  of  life;  every  change  of  vegetation  from  the  first 
principle  of  growth  in  the  eye  of  a  leaf,  to  the  tropical 
forest  and  antediluvian  coal-mine;  every  animal  function 
from  the  sponge  up  to  Hercules,  shall  hint  or  thunder  to 
man  the  laws  of  right  and  wrong,  and  echo  the  Ten  Com 
mandments.  Therefore  is  nature  ever  the  ally  of  Religion : 
lends  all  her  pomp  and  riches  to  the  religious  sentiment. 
Prophet  and  priest,  David,  Isaiah,  Jesus,  have  drawn  deeply 
from  this  source.  This  ethical  character  so  penetrates  the 
bone  and  marrow  of  nature,  as  to  seem  the  end  for  which 
it  was  made.  Whatever  private  purpose  is  answered  by 
any  member  or  part,  this  is  its  public  and  universal  func 
tion,  and  is  never  omitted.  Nothing  in  nature  is  exhausted 
in  its  first  use.  When  a  thing  has  served  an  end  to  the 
uttermost,  it  is  wholly  new  for  an  ulterior  service.  In  God, 
every  end  is  converted  into  a  new  means.  Thus  the  use 
of  commodity,  regarded  by  itself,  is  mean  and  squalid. 
But  it  is  to  the  mind  an  education  in  the  doctrine  of  Use, 
namely,  that  a  thing  is  good  only  so  far  as  it  serves; 
that  a  conspiring  of  parts  and  efforts  to  the  production  of 
an  end,  is  essential  to  any  being.  The  first  and  gross 
manifestation  of  this  truth,  is  our  inevitable  and  hated  train 
ing  in  values  and  wants,  in  corn  and  meat. 

It  has  already  been  illustrated,  that  every  natural  process 
is  a  version  of  a  moral  sentence.  The  moral  law  lies  at 
the  center  of  nature  and  radiates  to  the  circumference. 
It  is  the  pith  and  marrow  of  every  substance,  every  rela 
tion,  and  every  process.  All  things  with  which  we  deal, 
preach  to  us.  What  is  a  farm  but  a  mute  gospel?  The 
chaff  and  the  wheat,  weeds  and  plants,  blight,  rain,  insects, 
sun  —  it  is  a  sacred  emblem  from  the  first  furrow  of  spring 
to  the  last  stack  which  the  snow  of  winter  overtakes  in 


DISCIPLINE  23 

the  fields.  But  the  sailor,  the  shepherd,  the  miner,  the 
merchant,  in  their  several  resorts,  have  each  an  experience 
precisely  parallel,  and  leading  to  the  same  conclusion:  be 
cause  all  organizations  are  radically  alike.  Nor  can  it  be 
doubted  that  this  moral  sentiment  which  thus  scents  the 
air,  grows  in  the  grain,  and  impregnates  the  waters  of 
the  world,  is  caught  by  man  and  sinks  into  his  soul.  The 
moral  influence  of  nature  upon  every  individual  is  that 
amount  of  truth  which  it  illustrates  to  him.  Who  can 
estimate  this?  Who  can  guess  how  much  firmness  the 
sea-beaten  rock  has  taught  the  fisherman?  how  much  tran 
quillity  has  been  reflected  to  man  from  the  azure  sky,  over 
whose  unspotted  deeps  the  winds  forevermore  drive  flocks 
of  stormy  clouds,  and  leave  no  wrinkle  or  stain?  how  much 
industry  and  providence  and  affection  we  have  caught 
from  the  pantomime  of  brutes?  What  a  searching  preacher 
of  self-command  is  the  varying  phenomenon  of  Health! 

Herein  is  especially  apprehended  the  unity  of  Nature  — 
the  unity  in  variety  —  which  meets  us  everywhere.  All 
the  endless  variety  of  things  make  an  identical  impression. 
Xenophanes  complained  in  his  old  age,  that,  look  where 
he  would,  all  thing  hastened  back  to  Unity.  He  was  weary 
of  seeing  the  same  entity  in  the  tedious  variety  of  forms. 
The  fable  of  Proteus  has  a  cordial  truth.  A  leaf,  a  drop, 
a  crystal,  a  moment  of  time  is  related  to  the  whole,  and 
partakes  of  the  perfection  of  the  whole.  Each  particle  is 
a  microcosm,  and  faithfully  renders  the  likeness  of  the 
world. 

Not  only  resemblances  exist  in  things  whose  analogy  is 
obvious,  as  when  we  detect  the  type  of  the  human  hand 
in  the  flipper  of  the  fossil  saurus,  but  also  in  objects  wherein 
there  is  great  superficial  unlikeness.  Thus  architecture  is 
called  "frozen  music,"  by  De  Stael  and  Goethe.  Vitruvius 
thought  an  architect  should  be  a  musician.  "A  Gothic 
church,"  said  Coleridge,  "is  a  petrified  religion."  Michael 
Angelo  maintained,  that,  to  an  architect,  a  knowledge  of 
anatomy  is  essential.  In  Haydn's  oratorios,  the  notes  pre 
sent  to  the  imagination  not  only  motions,  as  of  the  snake, 
the  stag,  and  the  elephant,  but  colors  also;  as  the  green 


24  NATURE 

grass.  The  law  of  harmonic  sounds  reappears  in  the  har 
monic  colors.  The  granite  is  differenced  in  its  laws  only 
by  the  more  or  less  of  heat,  from  the  river  that  wears  it 
away.  The  river,  as  it  flows,  resembles  the  air  that  flows 
over  it;  the  air  resembles  the  light  which  traverses  it  with 
more  subtle  currents;  the  light  resembles  the  heat  which 
rides  with  it  through  Space.  Each  creature  is  only  a  modifi 
cation  of  the  other;  the  likeness  in  them  is  more  than  the 
difference,  and  their  radical  law  is  one  and  the  same.  A 
rule  of  one  art,  or  a  law  of  one  organization,  holds  true 
throughout  nature.  So  intimate  is  this  Unity,  that,  it  is 
easily  seen,  it  lies  under  the  undermost  garment  of  nature, 
and  betrays  its  source  in  Universal  Spirit.  For,  it  pervades 
Thought  also.  Every  universal  truth  which  wre  express  in 
words,  implies  or  supposes  every  other  truth.  Omne  verum 
vero  consonat.  It  is  like  a  great  circle  on  a  sphere,  com 
prising  all  possible  circles;  which  however,  may  be  drawn, 
and  comprise  it,  in  like  manner.  Every  such  truth  is  the 
absolute  Ens  seen  from  one  side.  But  it  has  innumerable 
sides. 

The  central  Unity  is  still  more  conspicuous  in  actions. 
Words  are  finite  organs  of  the  infinite  mind.  They  can 
not  cover  the  dimensions  of  what  is  in  truth.  They  break, 
chop,  and  impoverish  it.  An  action  is  the  perfection  and 
publication  of  thought.  A  right  action  seems  to  fill  the  eye, 
and  to  be  related  to  all  nature.  "The  wise  man,  in  doing 
one  thing,  does  all;  or,  in  the  one  thing  he  does  rightly,  he 
sees  the  likeness  of  all  which  is  done  rightly." 

Words  and  actions  are  not  the  attributes  of  brute  nature. 
They  introduce  us  to  the  human  form,  of  which  all  other 
organizations  appear  to  be  degradations.  When  this  ap 
pears  among  so  many  that  surround  it,  the  spirit  prefers 
it  to  all  others.  It  says,  'From  such  as  this,  have  I  drawn 
joy  and  knowledge;  in  such  as  this,  have  I  found  and 
beheld  myself;  I  will  speak  to  it;  it  can  speak  again;  it 
can  yield  me  thought  already  formed  and  alive.'  In  fact, 
the  eye  —  the  mind  —  is  always  accompanied  by  these 
forms,  male  and  female;  and  these  are  incomparably  the 
richest  informations  of  the  power  and  order  that  lie  at 


IDEALISM  25 

the  heart  of  things.  Unfortunately,  every  one  of  them  bears 
the  marks  as  of  some  injury;  is  marred  and  superficially 
defective.  Nevertheless,  far  different  from  the  deaf  and 
dumb  nature  around  them,  these  all  rest  like  fountain-pipes 
on  the  unfathomed  sea  of  thought  and  virtue  whereto  they 
alone,  of  all  organizations,  are  the  entrances. 

It  were  a  pleasant  inquiry  to  follow  into  detail  their 
ministry  to  our  education,  but  where  would  it  stop?  We 
are  associated  in  adolescent  and  adult  life  with  some  friends, 
who,  like  sides  and  waters,  are  coextensive  with  our  idea; 
who,  answering  each  to  a  certain  affection  of  the  soul, 
satisfy  our  desire  on  that  side;  whom  we  lack  power  to 
put  at  such  focal  distance  from  us,  that  we  can  mend  or 
even  analyze  them.  We  cannot  choose  but  love  them. 
When  much  intercourse  with  a  friend  has  supplied  us  with 
a  standard  of  excellence,  and  has  increased  our  respect  for 
the  resources  of  God  who  thus  sends  a  real  person  to  outgo 
our  ideal;  when  he  has,  moreover,  become  an  object  of 
thought,  and,  whilst  his  character  retains  all  its  uncon 
scious  effect,  is  converted  in  the  mind  into  solid  and  sweet 
wisdom  —  it  is  a  sign  to  us  that  his  office  is  closing,  and 
he  is  commonly  withdrawn  from  our  sight  in  a  short  time. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IDEALISM 

THUS  is  the  unspeakable  but  intelligible  and  practicable 
meaning  of  the  world  conveyed  to  man,  the  immortal  pupil, 
in  every  object  of  sense.  To  this  one  end  of  Discipline,  all 
parts  of  nature  conspire. 

A  noble  doubt  perpetually  suggests  itself,  whether  this 
end  be  not  the  Final  Cause_ of  the  Universe;  and  whether 
nature  outwardly  exists.  It  is  a  sufficient  account  of  that 
Appearance  we  call  the  World,  that  God  will  teach  a  human 
mind,  and  so  makes  it  the  receiver  of  a  certain  number 
of  congruent  sensations,  which  we  call  sun  and  moon,  man 
and  woman,  house  and  trade.  In  my  utter  impotence  to 


26  NATURE 

test  the  authenticity  of  the  report  of  my  senses,  to  know 
whether  the  impressions  they  make  on  me  correspond  with 
outlying  objects,  what  difference  does  it  make,  whether 
Orion  is  up  there  in  heaven,  or  some  god  paints  the  image 
in  the  firmament  of  the  soul?  The  relations  of  parts  and 
the  end  of  the  whole  remaining  the  same,  what  is  the  differ 
ence,  whether  land  and  sea  interact,  and  worlds  revolve 
and  intermingle  without  number  or  end,  —  deep  yawning 
under  deep,  and  galaxy  balancing  galaxy,  throughout  abso 
lute  space,  —  or,  whether,  without  relations  of  time  and 
space,  the  same  appearances  are  inscribed  in  the  constant 
faith  of  man?  Whether  nature  enjoy  a  substantial  exfsT-  \ 
ence  without,  or  is  only  in  the  apocalypse  of  the  mind,  it  ' 
is  alike  useful  and  alike  venerable  to  me.  Be  it  what  it 
may,  it  is  ideal  to  me,  so  long  as  I  cannot  try  the  accuracy 
of  my  senses. 

The  frivolous  make  themselves  merry  with  the  Ideal 
theory,  as  if  its  consequences  were  burlesque;  as  if  it 
affected  the  stability  of  nature.  It  surely  does  not.  God 
never  jests  with  us,  and  will  not  compromise  the  end  of 
nature,  by  permitting  any  inconsequence  in  its  procession. 
Any  distrust  of  the  permanence  of  laws,  would  paralyze 
the  faculties  of  man.  Their  permanence  is  sacredly  re 
spected,  and  his  faith  therein  is  perfect.  The  wheels  and 
springs  of  man  are  all  set  to  the  hypothesis  of  the  per 
manence  of  nature.  We  are  not  built  like  a  ship  to  be 
tossed,  but  like  a  house  to  stand.  It  is  a  natural  conse 
quence  of  the  structure,  that,  so  long  as  the  active  powers 
predominate  over  the  reflective,  we  resist  with  indignation 
any  hint  that  nature  is  more  short-lived  or  mutable  than 
spirit.  The  broker,  the  wheelwright,  the  carpenter,  the 
tollman,  are  much  displeased  at  the  intimation. 

But  whilst  we  acquiese  entirely  in  the  permanence  of 
natural  laws,  the  question  of  the  absolute  existence  of 
nature  still  remains  open.  It  is  the  uniform  effect  of 
culture  on  the  human  mind,  not  to  shake  our  faith  in  the 
stability  of  particular  phenomena,  as  of  heat,  water,  azote; 
but  to  lead  us  to  regard  nature  as  a  phenomenon,  not  a 
substance;  to  attribute  necessary  existence  to  spirit;  to 


IDEALISM  27 

esteem  nature  as  an  accident  and  an  effect. 

To  the  senses  and  the  unrenewed  understanding,  belongs 
a  sort  of  instinctive  belief  in  the  absolute  existence  of 
nature.  In  their  view,  man  and  nature  are  indissolubly 
joined.  Things  are  ultimates,  and  they  never  look  beyond 
their  sphere.  The  presence  of  Reason  mars  this  faith.  The 
first  effort  of  thought  tends  to  relax  this  despotism  of  the 
senses,  which  binds  us  to  nature  as  if  we  were  a  part  of  it, 
and  shows  us  nature  aloof,  and,  as  it  were,  afloat.  Until 
this  higher  agency  intervened,  the  animal  eye  sees,  with 
wonderful  accuracy,  sharp  outlines  and  colored  surfaces. 
When  the  eye  of  Reason  opens,  to  outline  and  surface  are 
at  once  added,  grace  and  expression.  These  proceed  from 
imagination  and  affection,  and  abate  somewhat  of  the  angu 
lar  distinctness  of  objects.  If  the  Reason  be  stimulated  to 
more  earnest  vision,  outlines  and  surface  become  trans 
parent,  and  are  no  longer  seen;  causes  and  spirits  are  seen 
through  them.  The  best  moments  of  life  are  these  de 
licious  awakenings  of  the  higher  powers,  and  the  reverential 
withdrawing  of  nature  before  its  God. 

Let  us  proceed  to  indicate  the  effects  of  culture.  1.  Our 
first  institution  in  the  Ideal  philosophy  is  a  hint  from 
nature  herself. 

Nature  is  made  to  conspire  with  spirit  to  emancipate  us. 
Certain  mechanical  changes,  a  small  alteration  in  our  local 
position  apprises  us  of  a  dualism.  We  are  strangely 
affected  by  seeing  the  shore  from  a  moving  ship,  from  a 
balloon,  or  through  the  tints  of  an  unusual  sky.  The  least 
change  in  our  point  of  view,  gives  the  whole  world  a  pic 
torial  air.  A  man  who  seldom  rides,  needs  only  to  get  into 
a  coach  and  traverse  his  own  town,  to  turn  the  street  into  a 
puppet  show.  The  men,  the  women,  —  talking,  running, 
bartering,  fighting,  —  the  earnest  mechanic,  the  lounger, 
the  beggar,  the  boys,  the  dogs,  are  unrealized  at  once,  or, 
at  least,  wholly  detached  from  all  relation  to  the  observer, 
and  seen  as  apparent,  not  substantial  beings.  What  new 
thoughts  are  suggested  by  seeing  a  face  of  country  quite 
familiar,  in  the  rapid  movement  of  the  railroad  car!  Nay, 
the  most  wonted  objects  (make  a  very  slight  change  in 


28  NATURE 

the  point  of  vision)  please  us  most.  In  a  camera  obscura, 
the  butcher's  cart,  and  the  figure  of  one  of  our  own  family 
amuse  us.  So  a  portrait  of  a  well-known  face  gratifies  us. 
Turn  the  eyes  upside  down,  by  looking  at  the  landscape 
through  your  legs,  and  how  agreeable  is  the  picture,  though 
you  have  seen  it  any  time  these  twenty  years ! 

In  these  cases,  by  mechanical  means,  is  suggested  the 
difference  between  the  observer  and  the  spectacle, — between 
man  and  nature.  Hence  arises  a  pleasure  mixed  with  awe; 
I  may  say,  a  low  degree  of  the  sublime  is  felt  from  the  fact, 
probably,  that  man  is  hereby  apprised,  that,  whilst  the 
world  is  a  spectacle,  something  in  himself  is  stable. 

2.  In  a  higher  manner,  the  poet  communicates  the  same 
pleasure.  By  a  few  strokes,  he  delineates,  as  on  air,  the 
mountain,  the  camp,  the  city,  the  hero,  the  maiden,  not 
different  from  what  we  know  them,  but  only  lifted  from  the 
ground  and  afloat  before  the  eye.  He  unfixes  the  land  and 
the  sea,  makes  them  revolve  around  the  axis  of  his  primary 
thought,  and  disposes  them  anew.  Possessed  himself  by  a 
heroic  passion,  he  uses  matter  as  symbols  of  it.  The  sen 
sual  man  conforms  thoughts  to  things;  the  poet  conforms 
things  to  his  thoughts.  The  one  esteems  nature  as  rooted 
and  fast;  the  other,  as  fluid,  and  impresses  his  being 
thereon.  To  him,  the  refractory  world  is  ductile  and  flex 
ible,  he  invests  dust  and  stones  with  humanity,  and  makes 
them  the  words  of  the  Reason.  The  Imagination  may.,  be 
defined  to  bet  the  use  which  the  Reason  makes  oi  the_ma-_ 
terial  world.  Shakespeare  possesses  the  power  of  subor 
dinating  nature  for  the  purposes  of  expression,  beyond  all 
poets.  His  imperial  muse  tosses  the  creation  like  a  bauble 
from  hand  to  hand,  and  uses  it  to  embody  any  caprice  of 
thought  that  is  uppermost  in  his  mind.  The  remotest 
spaces  of  nature  are  visited,  and  the  farthest  sundered 
things  are  brought  together,  by  a  subtle  spiritual  connec 
tion.  We  are  made  aware  that  magnitude  of  material 
things  is  relative,  and  all  objects  shrink  and  expand  to 
serve  the  passion  of  the  poet.  Thus,  in  his  sonnets,  the 
lays  of  birds,  the  scents  and  dyes  of  flowers,  he  finds  to 
be  the  shadow  of  his  beloved;  time,  which  keeps  her  from 


IDEALISM  29 

him,  is  his  chest;  the  suspicion  she  has  awakened,  is  her 
ornament ; 

The  ornament  of  beauty  is  Suspect, 

A   crow  that    flies  in  heaven's  sweetest  air. 

His  passion  is  not  the  fruit  of  chance;   it  swells,  as  he 
speaks,  to  a  city,  or  a  state. 

No,  it  was  builded  far  from  accident; 

It  suffers  not  in  smiling  pomp,  nor  falls 

Under  the  brow  of  thralling  discontent; 

It  fears  not  policy,  that  heretic, 

That  works  on  leases  of  short  numbered  hours, 

But  all  alone  stands  hugely  politic. 

In  the  strength  of  his  constancy,  the  Pyramids  seem  to 
him  recent  and  transitory.  The  freshness  of  youth  and 
love  dazzles  him  with  its  resemblance  to  morning. 

Take  those  lips  away 
Which  so  sweetly  were  forsworn; 
And  those  eyes,  —  the  break  of  day, 
Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn. 

The  wild  beauty  of  this  hyperbole,  I  may  say,  in  passing, 
it  would  not  be  easy  to  match  in  literature. 

This  transfiguration  which  all  material  objects  undergo 
through  the"  passion  of  the  poet,  —  this  power  which  he 
"exerts  to  dwarf  the  great,  to  magnify  the  small,  —  might  be 
illustrated  by  a  thousand  examples  from  his  Plays.  I  have 
before  me  the  Tempest,  and  will  cite  only  these  few  lines. 

ARIEL.     The  strong  based  promontory 

Have  I  made  shake,  and  by  the  spurs  plucked  up 
I  The  pine  and  cedar. 

Prospero  calls  for  music  to  soothe  the  frantic  Alonzo,  and 
his  companions; 

A  solemn  air,  and  the  best  comforter 
To  an  unsettled  fancy,  cure  thy  brains 
Now  useless,  boiled  within  thy  skull. 

Again; 

The  charm  dissolves  apace, 
And,  as  the  morning  steals  upon  the  night, 
Melting  the  darkness,  so  their  rising  senses 


30  NATURE 

Begin  to  chase  the  ignorant  fumes  that  mantle 
Their  clearer  reason. 

Their  understanding 

Begins  to  swell:    and  the  approaching  tide 
Will  shortly  fill  the  reasonable  shores 
That  now  lie  foul  and  muddy. 

The  perception  of  real  affinities  between  events,  (that  is 
to  say,  of  ideal  affinities,  for  those  only  are  real,)  enables 
the  poet  thus  to  make  free  with  the  most  imposing  forms 
and  phenomena  of  the  world,  and  to  assert  the  predom 
inance  of  the  soul. 

3.  Whilst  thus  the_  poet  animates  nature  with  his  own 
thoughts,  he  differs  fforrTflie  philosopher  only  herein^  that 
the  one  proposes  Beauty  as  his  main  end;  the  other,  Tlllth. 
But  the  philosopher,  not  less  than  the  poet,  postpones  the 
apparent  order  and  relations  of  things  to  the  empire  of 
thought.  "The  problem  of  philosophy,"  according  to  Plato, 
"is,  for  all  that  exists  conditionally,  to  find  a  ground  un 
conditioned  and  absolute^LJt  proceeds  on  the  fa^thjbhat 
a  law  determines  all  phenomena,  which  being  known,  the 
phenomena  can  be  predicted.  That  law,  when  in  the  mind, 
is  an  idea.  Its  beauty  is  infinite.  The  true  philosopher 
and  the  true  poet  are  one,  and  a  beauty,  which  is  truth, 
and  a  truth,  which  is  beauty,  is  the  aim  of  both.  Is  not  the 
charm  of  one  of  Plato's  or  Aristotle's  definitions,  strictly  like 
that  of  the  Antigone  of  Sophocles  ?  It  is,  in  both  cases,  that 
a  spiritual  life  has  been  imparted  to  nature;  that  the  solid 
seeming  block  of  matter  has  been  pervaded  and  dissolved 
by  a  thought;  that  this  feeble  human  being  has  penetrated 
the  vast  masses  of  nature  with  an  informing  soul,  and 
recognized  itself  in  their  harmony,  that  is,  seized  their  law. 
In  Physics,  when  this  is  attained,  the  memory  disburthens 
itself  of  its  cumbrous  catalogues  of  particulars  and  carries 
centuries  of  observation  in  a  single  formula. 

Thus  even  in  physics,  the  material  is  degraded  before  the 
spiritual.  The  astronomer,  the  geometer,  rely,  on  their 
irrefragable  analysis,  and  disdain  the  results  of  observation. 
The  sublime  remark  of  Euler  on  his  law  of  arches,  "This  will 
be  found  contrary  to  all  experience,  yet  is  true,"  had 


IDEALISM  31 

already  transferred  nature  into  the  mind,  and  left  matter 
like  an  outcast  corpse. 

4.  Intellectual   science  has   been   observed  to  beget  in 
variably  a  doubt  of  the  existence  of  matter.    Turgot  said, 
"He  that  has  never  doubted  the  existence  of  matter,  may 
be  assured  he  has  no  aptitude  for  metaphysical  inquiries." 
It  fastens  the  attention  upon  immortal  necessary  uncreated 
natures,  that  is,  upon  Ideas;  and  in  their  presence,  we  feel 
that  the  outward  circumstance  is  a  dream  and  a  shade. 
Whilst  we  wait  in  this  Olympus  of  gods,  we  think  of  nature 
as  an  appendix  to  the  soul.    We  ascend  into  their  region, 
and  know  that  these  are  the  thoughts  of  the  Supreme  Be 
ing.    "These  are  they  \vho  were  set  up  from  everlasting, 
from  the  beginning,  or  ever  the  earth  was.    When  he  pre- 
pard  the  heavens,  they,  were  there;  when  he  established  the 
clouds  above,  when  he  strengthened  the  fountains  of  the 
deep,  then  they  were  by  him,  as  one  brought  up  with  him. 
Of  them  took  he  counsel." 

Their  influence  is  proportionate.  As  objects  of  science, 
they  are  accessible  to  few  men.  Yet  all  men  are  capable 
of  being  raised  by  piety  or  by  passion,  into  their  region. 
And  no  man  touches  these  divine  natures,  without  becom 
ing,  in  some  degree,  himself  divine.  Like  a  new  soul,  they 
renew  the  body.  We  become  physically  nimble  and  light 
some;  we  tread  on  air;  life  is  no  longer  irksome,  and  we 
think  it  will  never  be  so.  No  man  fears  age  or  misfortune 
or  death,  in  their  serene  company,  for  he  is  transported  out 
of  the  district  of  change.  Whilst  we  behold  unveiled  the 
nature  of  Justice  and  Truth,  we  learn  the  difference  between 
the  absolute  and  the  conditional  or  relative.  We  appre 
hend  the  absolute.  As  it  were,  for  the  first  time,  we  exist. 
We  become  immortal,  for  we  learn  that  time  and  space  are 
relations  of  matter;  that,  with  a  perception  of  truth,  or  a 
virtuous  will,  they  have  no  affinity. 

5.  Finally,  religion  and  ethics,  which  may  be  fitly  called, 
• — the  practice  of  ideas,  or  the  introduction  of  ideas  into 

Jife,  —  have  an  "analogous  effect  with  all  lower  culture,  in 
degrading  nature  and  suggesting  its  dependence  on  spirit. 
Ethics  and  religion  differ  herein;  that  the  one  is  the  system 


32  NATURE 

of  human  duties  commencing  from  man;  the  other^Jfrom 
jjR^~'HeHgton  "includes"  the  personality!)! " Obd"; '  Ethics  does 
not.  They  are  one  to  our  present  design.  They  both  put 
nature  under  foot.  The  first  and  last  lesson  of  religion 
is^^The  things  that  are  seen,  are  temporal;  the  things  that 
are  unseen,  are  eternal."  It  puts  an  affront  upon  nature. 
It  does  that  for  the  unschooled,  which  philosophy  does  for 
Berkeley  and  Viasa.  The  uniform  language  that  may  be 
heard  in  the  churches  of  the  most  ignorant  sects,  is,— 
"Contemn  the  unsusbstantial  shows  of  the  world;  they  are 
vanities,  dreams,  shadows,  unrealities;  seek  the  realities  of 
religion."  The  devotee  flouts  nature.  Some  theosophists 
have  arrived  at  a  certain  hostility  and  indignation  towards 
matter,  as  the  Manichean  and  Plotinus.  They  distrusted 
in  themselves  any  looking  back  to  these  flesh-pots  of  Egypt. 
Plotinus  was  ashamed  of  his  body.  In  short,  they  might 
all  say  of  matter,  what  Michael  Angelo  said  of  external 
beauty,  "it  is  the  frail  and  weary  weed,  in  which  God 
dresses  the  soul,  which  he  has  called  into  tune." 

It  appears  that  motion,  poetry,  physical  and  intellectual 
science,  and  religion,  all  tend  to  affect  our  convictions  of 
the  reality  of  the  external  world.  But  I  own  there  is 
something  ungrateful  in  expanding  too  curiously  the  par 
ticulars  of  the  general  proposition,  that  all  culture  tends 
to  imbue  us  with  idealism.  I  have  no  hostility  to  nature, 
but  a  child's  love  to  it.  I  expand  and  live  in  the  warm 
day  like  corn  and  melons.  Let  us  speak  her  fair.  _I  do 
not  wish  to  fling  stones  at  my  beautiful  mother,  nor  soil 
my  gentle  nest.  I  only  wish  to  indicate  the  true  position 
of  nature  in  regard  to  man,  "wherein  Jbojestablish  man,  all 
right  education ._ tends;  as  tlie  ground  wHcTTTcf  attain  is 
the  object  of  human  life,  that  is,  of  man's  connection  with 
nature.  Culture  inverts  the  vulgar  views  of  nature,  and 
brings  the  mind  to  call  that  apparent,  which  it  uses  to  call 
real,  and  that  real,  which  it  uses  to  call  visionary.  Chil 
dren,  it  is  true,  believe  in  the  external  world.  The  belief 
that  it  appears  only,  is  an  afterthought,  but  with  culture, 
this  faith  will  as  surely  arise  on  the  mind  as  did  the  first. 

The   advantage  of  the  ideal  theory  over  the   popular 


SPIRIT  33 

faith,  is  this,  that  it  presents  the  world  in  precisely  that 
view  which  is  most  desirable  to  the  mind.  It  is,  in  fact, 
the  view  which  Reason,  both  speculative  and  practical, 
that  is,  philosophy  and  virtue,  take.  For,  seen  in  the  light 
of  thought,  the  world  always  is  phenomenal;  and  virtue 
subordinates  it  to  the  mind. 


G.Qd.  It  beholds  the  whole  circle  of  persons  and  things,  of 
actions  and  events,  of  country  and  religion,  not  as  painfully 
accumulated,  atom  after  atom,  act  after  act,  in  an  aged 
creeping  Past,  but  as  one  vast  picture,  which  God  paints 
on  the  instant  eternity,  for  the  contemplation  of  the  soul. 
Therefore  the  soul  holds  itself  off  from  a  too  trivial  and 
microscopic  study  of  the  universal  tablet.  It  respects  the 
end  too  much,  to  immerse  itself  in  the  means.  It  sees 
something  more  important  in  Christianity,  than  the  scandals 
of  ecclesiastical  history,  or  the  niceties  of  criticism;  and, 
very  incurious  concerning  persons  or  miracles,  and  not  at 
all  disturbed  by  chasms  of  historical  evidence,  it  accepts 
from  God  the  phenomenon,  as  it  finds  it,  as  the  pure  and 
awful  form  of  religion  in  the  world.  It  is  not  hot  and 
passionate  at  the  appearance  of  what  it  calls  its  own  good 
or  bad  fortune,  at  the  union  or  opposition  of  other  persons. 
No  man  is  its  enemy.  It  accepts  whatsoever  befalls,  as 
part  of  its  lesson.  It  is  a  watcher  more  than  a  doer,  and 
it  is  a  doer,  only  that  it  may  the  better  watch. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SPIRIT 

IT_IS  essential  to  a  true  theory  of  nature  and  of  man, 
that  it  should  contain  somewhat  progressive.  JUses  that 
are  exhausted  or  that  may  be,  and  _f.a.cts_  that  end  in  the 
statement,  cannot  be  all  that  is  true  of  this  brave  lodging 
wherein  man  is  harbored,  and  wherein  all  his  faculties  find 
^appropriate  and  endless  exercise.  And  all  the  uses  of  nature 
admit  of  being  summed  in  one,  which  yields  the  activity  of 
toan  an  infinite  scope.  Through  all  its  kingdoms,  to  the 


34  NATURE 

suburbs  and  outskirts  of  things,  it  is  faithful  to. the  cause 
whence  it  had  its  origin.  It  always  speaks  of  Spirit.  It 
suggests  the  absolute.  It  is  a  perpetual  effect.  It  is_a 
great  shadow  pointing  always  to  the  sun  behind  us. 

•  The  aspect  of  nature  is  devout.  Like  the  figure  of 
Jesus,  she  stands  with  bended  head,  and  hands  folded  upon 
the  breast.  {The  happiest  man  is  he  who  learns  from  nature 
the  lesson  of  worship.) 

Of  that  ineffable  essence  which  we  call  Spirit,  he  that 
thinks  most,  will  say  least.  We  can  foresee  God  in  the 
coarse,  and,  as  it  were,  distant  phenomena  of  matter;  but 
when  we  try  to  define  and  describe  himself,  both  language 
and  thought  desert  us,  and  we  are  as  helpless  as  fools  and 
savages.  That  essence  refuses  to  be  recorded  in  proposi 
tions,  but  when  man  has  worshipped  him  intellectually, 
the  noblest  ministry  of  nature  is  to  stand  as  the  appari 
tion  of  God.  It  is  the  organ  through  which  the  universal 
spirit  speaks  to  the  individual,  and  strives  to  lead"  back 
the  individual  to  it. 

When  we  consider  Spirit,  we  see  that  the  views  already 
presented  do  not  include  the  whole  circumference  of  man. 
We  must  add  some  related  thoughts. 

Three  problems  are  put  by  nature  to  the  mind;  What 
is  matter?  Whence  is  it?  and  Whereto?  The  first  "of 
these  questions  only,  the  ideal  theory  answers.  Idealism 
saith:  matter  is  a  phenomenon,  not  a  substance.  Ideal 
ism  acquaints  us  with  the  total  disparity  between  the 
evidence  of  pur  own  being,  and  the  evidence  of  the  world's 
being.  The  one  is  perfect;  the  other,  incapable  of  any 
assurance;  the  mind  is  a  part  of  the  nature  of  things; 
the  world  is  a  divine  dream^from  which  we  may  presently 
awake  to  the  glories  and  certainties  of  day.  Idealism  is 
a  hypothesis  to  account  for  nature  by  other  principles 
than  those  of  carpentry  and  chemistry.  Yet,  if  it  only 
deny  the  existence  of  matter,  it  does  not  satisfy  the  de 
mands  of  the  spirit.  It  leaves  God  out  of  me.  It  leaves 
me  in  the  splendid  labyrinth  of  my  perceptions,  to  wan 
der  without  end.  Then  the  heart  resists  it,  because  it 
balks  the  affections  in  ^denying  substantive  being  to  men 
and  women.  Nature  is  so  pervaded  with  human  life, 


SPIRIT  35 

that  there  is  something  of  humanity  in  all,  and  in  every 
particular.  But  this  theory  makes  nature  foreign  to  me, 
and  does  not  account  for  that  consanguinity  which  we 
acknowledge  to  it. 

Let  it  stand,  then,  in  the  present  state  of  our  knowledge, 
merely  as  a  useful  introductory  hypothesis,  serving  to 
apprise  us  of  the  eternal  distinction  between  the  soul  and 
the  world. 

But  when  following  the  invisible  steps  of  thought,  we 
come  to  inquire,  Whence  is  matter  ?  and  Whereto  ?  many 
truths  arise  to  us  out  of  the  recesses  of  consciousness.  We 
learn  that  the  highest  is  present  to  the  soul  of  man,  that 
the  dread  universal  essence,  which  is  not  wisdom,  or  love, 
or  power,  but  all  in  one,  and  each  entirely,  is  that  for 
which  all  things  exist,  and  that  by  which  they  are;  that 
spirit,  creates;  that  behind  nature,  throughout  nature, 
spirit  is  present;  one  and  not  compound,  it  does  not  act 
upon  us  from  without,  that  is,  in  space  and  time,  but 
spiritually,  or  through  ourselves:  therefore,  that  spirit, 
that  is,  the  Supreme  Being,  *Hbes  not  build  up  nature 
around  us,  but  puts  it  forth  through  us,  as  the  life  of  the 
tree  puts"  forth  new  branches  and  leaves  through  the  pores 
oFlne  old.  As  a  plant  upon  the  earth,  so  a  man  rests 
upon  the  bosom  of  God;  he  is  nourished  by  unfailing 
fountains,  and  draws,  at  his  need,  inexhaustible  power. 
Who  can  set  bounds  to  the  possibilities  of  man?  Once 
inhale  the  upper  air,  being  admitted  to  behold  the  abso 
lute  natures  of  justice  and  truth,  and  we  learn  that  man 
has  access  to  the  entire  mind  of  the  Creator,  is  himself 
the  creator  in  the  finite.  This  view,  which  admonishes 
me  where  the  sources  of  wisdom  and  power  lie,  and  points 
to  virtue  as  to 

"The  golden  key 
Which  opes  the  palace  of  eternity," 

carries  upon  its  face  the  highest  ^certificate  of  truth,  be 
cause  it  animates  me  to  create  my  own  world  through 
the  purification  of  my  soul 

The  world  proceeds  from  the  same  spirit  as  the  body 


36  NATURE 

of  man.  Is  is  a  remoter  and  inferior  incarnation , of  God, 
a  projection  of  God  in  the  unconscious.  But  it  differs 
from  the  body  in  one  important  respect.  It  is  not,  like 
that,  now  subjected  to  the  human  will.  Its  serene  order 
is  inviolable  by  us.  It  is,  therefore,  to  us,,  the  present 
expositor  of  tne  divine  mind.  It  is  a  fixed  point  whereby 
we  may  measure  our  departure.  As  we  degenerate,  the 
contrast  between  us  and  our  house  is  more  evident.  We 
are  as  much  strangers  in  nature,  as  we  are  aliens  from 
God.  We  do  not  understand  the  notes  of  birds.  The 
fox  and  the  deer  run  away  from  us;  the  bear  and  tiger 
rend  us.  We  do  not  know  the  uses  of  more  than  a  few 
plants,  as  corn  and  the  apple,  the  potato  and  the  vine. 
Is  not  the  landscape,  every  glimpse  of  which  hath  a  gran 
deur,  a  face  of  him?  Yet  this  may  show  us  what  discord 
is  between  man  and  nature,  for  you  cannot  freely  admire 
a  noble  landscape,  if  laborers  are  digging  in  the  field 
hard  by.  The  poet  finds  something  ridiculous  in  his  de 
light,  until  he  is  out  of  the  sight  of  men. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

PROSPECTS 

IN  inquiries  respecting  the  laws  ot  the  world  and  the 
frame  of  things,  the  highest  reason  is  always  the  truest. 
That  which  seems  faintly  possible  —  it  is  so  refined,  is 
often  faint  and  dim  because  it  is  deepest  seated  in  the 
mind  among  the  eternal  verities.  Empirical  science  is  apt 
to  cloud  the  sight,  and^  by  the  very  knowledge  of~func- 
tions  and  processes,  to  bereave  tlie  student  of  the  manly 
contemplation  of  the  whole.  The  savant  becomes  unpoetic. 
But  the  best  read  naturalist  who  lends  an  entire  and 
devout  attention  to  truth,  will  see  that  there  remains 
much  to  learn  of  his  relation  to  the  world,  and  that  it  is 
not  to  be  learned  by  any  addition  or  subtraction  or  other 
comparison  of  known  quantities,  but  is  arrived  at  by  un 
taught  sallies  of  the  spirit,  by  a  continual  self-recovery, 


PROSPECTS  37 

and  by  entire  humility.  He  will  perceive  that  there  are 
iar  more  excellent  qualities  in  the  student  than  precise- 
ness  and  infallibility;  that  a  guess  is  often  more  fruitful 
than  an  indisputable  affirmation,  and  that  a  dream  may 
let  us  deeper  into  the  secret  of  nature  than  a  hundred 
conceited  experiments. 

For,  the  problems  to  be  solved  are  precisely  those  which 
the  physiologist  and  the  naturalist  omit  to  state.  It  is 
not  so  pertinent  to  man  to  know  all  the  individuals  of 
the  animal  kingdom,  as  it  is  to  know  whence  and  whereto 
is  this  tyrannizing  unity  in  his  constitution,  which  ever 
more  separates  and  classifies  things,  endeavoring  to  reduce 
the  most  diverse  to  one  form.  When  I  behold  a  rich 
landscape,  it  is  less  to  my  purpose  to  recite  correctly  the 
order  and  superposition  of  the  strata,  than  to  know  why  all 
thought  of  multitude  is  lost  in  a  tranquil  sense  of  unity. 
I  cannot  greatly  honor  minuteness  in  details,  so  long  as 
there  is  no  hint  to  explain  the  relation  between  things 
and  thoughts;  no  ray  upon  the  metaphysics  of  conchology, 
STiotany,  ofthe  arts,  to  show  the  relation  of  the  forms  of 
flowers,  shells,  animals,  architecture,  to  the  mind,  and 
build  science  upon  ideas.  In  a  cabinet  of  natural  his 
tory,  we  become  sensible  of  a  certain  occult  recognition 
and  sympathy  in  regard  to  the  most  unwieldy  and  eccen 
tric  forms  of  beast,  fish,  and  insect.  The  American  who 
has  been  confined,  in  his  own  country,  to  the  sight  of 
buildings  designed  after  foreign  models,  is  surprised  on 
entering  York  Minster  or  St.  Peter's  at  Rome,  by  the  feel 
ing  that  these  structures  are  imitations  also,  —  faint  copies 
of  an  invisible  archetype.  Nor  has  science  sufficient  hu 
manity,  so  long  as  the  naturalist  overlooks  that  wonderful 
congruiiy  which  subsists  between  man  and  the  world;  of 
which  he  is  lord,  not  because  he  is  the  most  subtile  in 
habitant,  but  because  he  is  its  head  and  heart,  and  finds 
something  of  himself  in  every  great  and  small  thing,  in 
i-\  cry  mountain  stratum,  in  every  new  law  of  color,  fact 
of  astronomy,  or  atmospheric  influence  which  observation 
or  analysis  lay  open.  A  perception  of  this  mystery  in 
spires  the  muse  of  George  Herbert,  the  beautiful  psalmist 


38  NATURE 

of  the  seventeenth  century.    The  following  lines  are  part 
of  his  little  poem  on  Man. 

"Man  is  all  symmetry, 
Full  of  proportions,  one  limb  to  another, 

And  to  all  the  world  besides. 

Each  part  may  call  the  farthest,  brother; 
For  head  with  foot  hath  private  amity, 

And  both  with  moons  and  tides. 

"Nothing  hath  got  so  far 
But  man  hath  caught  and  kept  it  as  his  prey; 

His  eyes  dismount  the  highest  star; 

He  is  in  little  all  the  sphere. 
Herbs  gladly  cure  our  flesh,  because  that  they 

Find  their  acquaintance  there. 

"For  us,  the  winds  do  blow, 
The  earth  doth  rest,  heaven  move,  and  fountains  flow; 

Nothing  we  see,  but  means  our  good, 

As  our  delight,  or  as  our  treasure; 
The  whole  is  either  our  cupboard  of  food, 

Or  cabinet  of  pleasure. 

"The  stars  have' us  to  bed: 
Night  draws  the  curtain;    which  the  sun  withdraws. 

Music  and  light  attend  our  head. 

All  things  unto  our  flesh  are  kind, 
In  their  descent  and  being;   to  our  mind, 

In  their  ascent  and  cause. 

"More  servants  wait  on  man 
Than  he'll  take  notice  of.     In  every  path, 

He  treads  down  that  which  doth  befriend  him 

When  sickness  makes  him  pale  and  wan. 
Oh  mighty  love!     Man  is  one  world,  and  hath 

Another  to  attend  him." 

*~ *. 

The  perception  of  this  class  of  truths  makes  the  attrac 
tion  which  draws  men  to  science,  but  the  end  is  lost 
sight  of  in  attention  to  the  means.  In  view  of  this 
half-sight  of  science,  we  accept  the  sentence  of  Plato,  that, 
"poetry  comes  nearer  to  vital  truth  than  history."  Every 
surmise  and  vaticination  of  the  mind  is  entitled  to  a  cer 
tain  respect,  and  we  learn  to  prefer  imperfect  theories, 
and  sentences,  which  contain  glimpses  of  truth,  to  digested 


PROSPECTS  39 

systems  which  have  no  one  valuable  suggestion.  A  wise 
writer  will  feel  that  the  ends  of  study  and  composition 
are  best  answered  by  announcing  undiscovered  regions  of 
thought,  and  so  communicating,  through  hope,  new  ac 
tivity  to  the  torpid  spirit. 

I  shall  therefore  conclude  this  essay  with  some  tradi 
tions  of  man  and  nature,  which  a  certain  poet  sang  to 
me;  and  which,  as  they  have  always  been  in  the  world, 
and  perhaps  reappear  to  every  bard,  may  be  both  history 
and  prophecy. 

"The  foundations  of  man  are  not  in  matter,  but  in  spirit. 
But  the  element  of  spirit  is  eternity.  To  it,  therefore,  the 
longest  series  of  events,  the  oldest  chronologies  are  young 
and  recent.  In  the  cycle  of  the  universal  man,  from  whom 
the  known  individuals  proceed,,  centuries  are  points,  and 
all  history  is  but  the  epoch  of  one  degradation. 

"We    distrust    and    deny   inwardly   our   sympathy   with 
nature.    We  own  and  disown  our  relation  to  it,  by  turns. 
We  are,  like  Nebuchadnezzar,  dethroned,  bereft  of  reason,   j 
and  eating  grass  like  an  ox.    But  who  can  set  limits  to  the 
remedial  force  of  spirit? 

"A  man  is  a  god  in  ruins.  When  men  are  innocent, 
life  shall  be  longer,  and  shall  pass  into  the  immortal,  as 
gently  as  we  awake  from  dreams.  Now,  the  world  wrould 
be  insane  and  rabid,  if  these  disorganizations  should  last 
for  hundreds  of  years.  It  is  kept  in  check  by  death  and 
infancy.  Infancy  is  the  perpetual  Messiah,  which  comes 
into  the  arms  of  fallen  men,  and  pleads  with  them  to 
return  to  paradise. 

:;M;m  is  the  dwarf  of  himself.  Once  he  was  permeated 
and^TTTssolved  by  spirit.  He  filled  nature  with  his  over 
flowing  currents.  Out  from  him  sprang  the  sun  and  moon; 
from  man,  the  sun;  from  woman,  the  moon.  The  laws  of 
his  mind,  the  periods  of  his  actions  externized  themselves 
into  day  and  night,  into  the  year  and  the  seasons.  But, 
having  made  for  himself  this  huge  shell,  his  waters  re 
tired;  he  no  longer  fills  the  veins  and  veinlets;  he  is  shrunk 
to  a  drop.  He  sees,  that  the  structure  still  fits  him,  but 
fits  him  colossally.  Say,  rather,  once  it  fitted  him,  now 


40  NATURE 

it  corresponds  to  him  from  far  and  on  high.  He  adores 
timidly  his  own  work.  Now  is  man  the  follower  of  the 
sun,  and  woman  the  follower  of  the  moon.  Yet  some 
times  he  starts  in  his  slumber,  and  wonders  at  himself  and 
his  house,  and  muses  strangely  at  the  resemblance  betwixt 
him  and  it.  He  perceives  that  if  his  law  is  still  paramount, 
if  still  he  have  elemental  power,  if  his  word  is  sterling  yet 
in  nature,  it  is  not  conscious  power,  it  is  not  inferior 
but  superior  to  his  will.  It  is  Instinct."  Thus  my  Orphic 
poet  sang. 

At  present,  man  applies  to  nature  but  half  his  force. 
He  works  on  the  world  with  his  understanding  alone.  He 
lives  in  it,  and  masters  it  by  a  penny-wisdom;  and  he 
that  works  most  in  it,  is  but  a  half-man,  and  whilst 
his  arms  are  strong  and  his  digestion  good,  his  mind  is 
imbruted,  and  he  is  a  selfish  savage.  His  relation  to 
nature,  his  power  over  it,  is  through  the  understanding; 
as  by  manure;  the  economic  use  of  fire,  wind,  water,  and 
the  mariner's  needle;  steam,  coal,  chemical  agriculture; 
the  repairs  of  the  human  body  by  the  dentist  and  the 
surgeon.  This  is  such  a  resumption  of  power,  as  if  a 
banished  king  should  buy  his  territories  inch  by  inch, 
instead  of  vaulting  at  once  into  his  throne.  Meantime, 
in  the  thick  darkness,  there  are  not  wanting  gleams  of  a 
better  light,  —  occasional  examples  of  the  action  of  man 
upon  nature  with  his  entire  force,  —  with  reason  as  well 
as  understanding.  Such  examples  are;  the  traditions  of 
miracles  in  the  earliest  antiquity  of  all  nations;  the  history 
of  Jesus  Christ;  the  achievements  of  a  principle,  as  in 
religious  and  political  revolutions,  and  in  the  abolition 
of  the  Slave-trade;  the  miracles  of  enthusiasm,  as  those 
reported  of  Swedenborg,  Hohenlohe,  and  the  Shakers; 
many  obscure  and  yet  contested  facts,  now  arranged  under 
the  name  of  Animal  Magnetism;  prayer;  eloquence;  self- 
healing;  and  the  wisdom  of  children.  These  are  examples 
of  Reason's  momentary  grasp  of  the  sceptre;  the  exer 
tions  of  a  power  which  exists  not  in  time  or  space,  but 
an  instantaneous  in-streaming  causing  power.  The  differ 
ence  between  the  actual  and  the  ideal  force  of  man  is 


PROSPECTS  41 

happily  figured  by  the  schoolmen,  in  saying,  that  the 
knowledge  of  man  is  an  evening  knowledge,  vespertina 
cognitio,  but  that  of  God  is  a  morning  knowledge,  matu- 
tina  cognitio. 

The  problem  of  restoring  to  the  world  original  and 
eternal  beauty,  is  solved  by  the  redemption  of  the  soul. 
The  ruin  or  the  blank,  that  we  see  when  we  look  at 
nature,  is  in  our  own  eye.  The  axis  of  vision  is  not  co 
incident  with  the  axis  of  things,  and  so  they  appear  not 
transparent  but  opaque.  The  reason  why  the  world  lacks 
unity,  and  lies  broken  and  in  heaps,  is,  because  man  is 
disunited  with  himself.  He  cannot  be  a  naturalist,  until 
he  satisfies  all  the  demands  of  the  spirit.  Love  is  as  much 
its  demand,  as  perception.  Indeed,  neither  can  be  perfect 
without  the  other.  In  the  uttermost  meaning  of  the  wordsr 
thought  is  devout,  and  devotion  is  thought.  Deep  calls 
unto  deep.  But  in  actual  life,  the  marriage  is  not  cele 
brated.  There  are  innocent  men  who  worship  God  after 
the  tradition  of  their  fathers,  but  their  sense  of  duty  has 
not  yet  extended  to  the  use  of  all  their  faculties.  And 
there  are  patient  naturalists,  but  they  freeze  their  subject 
under  the  wintry  light  of  the  understanding.  Is  not  prayer 
also  a  study  of  truth,  —  a  sally  of  the  soul  into  the  unfound 
infinite?  No  man  ever  prayed  heartily,  without  learning 
something.  But  when  a  faithful  thinker,  resolute  to  de 
tach  every  object  from  personal  relations,  and  see  it  in  the 
light  of  thought,  shall,  at  the  same  time,  kindle  science 
with  the  fire  of  the  holiest  affections,  then  will  God  go 
forth  anew  into  the  creation. 

It  will  not  need,  when  the  mind  is  prepared  for  study, 
to  search  for  objects.  The  invariable  mark  of  wisdom  is 
to  see  the  miraculous  in  the  common.  What  is  a  day? 
What  is  a  year?  What  is  summer?  What  is  woman? 
What  is  a  child?  What  is  sleep?  To  our  blindness,  these 
things  seem  unaffected.  We  make  fables  to  hide  the  bald 
ness  of  the  fact  and  conform  it,  as  we  say,  to  the  higher 
law  of  the  mind.  But  when  the  fact  is  seen  under  the 
light  of  an  idea,  the  gaudy  fable  fades  and  shrivels.  We 
behold  the  real  higher  law.  To  the  wise,  therefore,  a  fact 


42  NATURE 

is  true  poetry,  and  the  most  beautiful  of  fables.  These 
wonders  are  brought  to  our  own  door.  You  also  are  a 
man.  Man  and  woman,  and  their  social  life,  poverty, 
labor,  sleep,  fear,  fortune,  are  known  to  you.  Learn  that 
none  of  these  things  is  superficial,  but  that  each  phenome 
non  has  its  roots  in  the  faculties  and  affections  of  the 
mind.  Whilst  the  abstract  question  occupies  your  intel 
lect,  nature  brings  it  in  the  concrete  to  be  solved  by  your 
hands.  It  were  a  wise  inquiry  for  the  closet,  to  compare, 
point  by  point,  especially  at  remarkable  crises  in  life,  our 
daily  history,  with  the  rise  and  progress  of  ideas  in  the 
mind. 

So  shall  we  come  to  look  at  the  world  with  new  eyes. 
It  shall  answer  the  endless  inquiry  of  the  intellect, — What 
is  truth?  and  of  the  affections,  —  What  is  good?  by  yield 
ing  itself  passive  to  the  educated  Will.  Then  shall  come 
to  pass  what  my  poet  said;  "Nature  is  not  fixed  but  fluid. 
Spirit  alters,  moulds,  makes  it.  The  immobility  or  brute- 
ness  of  nature,  is  the  absence  of  spirit;  to  pure  spirit,  it  is 
fluid,  it  is  volatile,  it  is  obedient.  Every  spirit  builds 
itself  a  house;  and  beyond  its  house  a  world;  and  beyond 
its  world  a  heaven.  Know  then,  that  the  world  exists  for 
you.  For  you  is  the  phonemenon  perfect.  What  we  are, 
that  only  can  we  see.  All  that  Adam  had,  all  that  CaBsar 
could,  you  have  and  can  do.  Adam  called  his  house, 
heaven  and  earth;  Caesar  called  his  house,  Rome;  you 
perhaps  call  yours,  a  cobbler's  trade;  a  hundred  acres 
of  ploughed  land;  or  a  scholar's  garret.  Yet  line  for 
line  and  point  for  point,  your  dominion  is  as  great  as 
theirs,  though  without  fine  names.  Build,  therefore,  your 
own  world.  As  fast  as  you  conform  your  life  to  the 
pure  idea  in  your  mind,  that  will  unfold  its  great  propor 
tions.  A  correspondent  revolution  in  things  will  attend 
the  influx  of  the  spirit.  So  fast  will  disagreeable  appear 
ances,  swine,  spiders,  snakes,  pets,  madhouses,  prisons, 
enemies,  vanish;  they  are  temporary  and  shall  be  no  more 
seen.  The  sordor  and  filths  of  nature,  the  sun  shall  dry 
up,  and  the  wind  exhale.  As  when  the  summer  comes 
from  the  south;  the  snow-banks  melt,  and  the  face  of 


PROSPECTS  43 

the  earth  becomes  green  before  it,  so  shall  the  advancing 
spirit  create  its  ornaments  along  its  path,  and  carry  with 
it  the  beauty  it  visits,  and  the  song  which  enchants  it; 
it  shall  draw  beautiful  faces,  warm  hearts,  wise  discourse, 
and  heroic  acts,  around  its  way,  until  evil  is  no  more  seen. 
The  kingdom  of  man  over  nature,  which  cometh  not  with 
observation,  —  a  dominion  such  as  now  is  beyond  his  dream 
of  God,  —  he  shall  enter  without  more  wonder  than  the 
blind  man  feels  who  is  gradually  restored  to  perfect 
sight." 


II 

THE  OVER-SOUL 

"But  souls  that  of  his  own  good  life  partake 
He  loves  as  his  own  self;    dear  as  his  eye 
They  are  to  Him:    He'll  never  them  forsake: 
When  they  shall  die,  then  God  himself  shall  die: 
They  live,  they  live  in  blest  eternity."  —  HENRY  MORE. 

THERE  is  a  difference  between  one  and  another  hour 
of  life  in  their  authority  and  subsequent  effect.  Our  faith 
comes  in  moments;  our  vice  is  habitual.  Yet  is  there  a 
depth  in  those  brief  moments,  which  constrains  us  to 
ascribe  more  reality  to  them  than  to  all  other  experiences. 
For  this  reason,  the  argument,  which  is  always  forth 
coming  to  silence  those  who  conceive  extraordinary  hopes 
of  man,  namely,  the  appeal  to  experience,  is  forever  invalid 
and  vain.  A  mightier  hope  ^bofe^s^jdespair.  We  give 
up  the  past  to  theob j  ector7~and  yet  we  hope.  He  must 
explain  this  hope.  We  grant  that  human  life  is  mean; 
but  how  did  we  find  out  that  it  was  mean?  What  is 
the  ground  of  this  uneasiness  of  ours,  of  this  old  dis 
content?  What  is  the  universal  sense  of  want  and  ignor 
ance,  but  the  fine  innuendo  by  which  the  great  soul  makes 
its  enormous  claim?  Why  do  men  feel  that  the  natural 
history  of  man  has  never  been  written,  but  always  he  is 
leaving  behind  what  you  have  said  of  him,  and  it  becomes 
old,  and  books  of  metaphysics  worthless?  The  philosophy 
of  six  thousand  years  has  not  searched  the  chambers  and 
magazines  of  the  soul.  In  its  experiments  there  has  always 
remained  in  the  last  analysis  a  residuum  it  could  not  re 
solve.  Man  is  a  stream  whose  source  is  hidden.  Always 
our  being  is  descending  into  us  from  WTC  know  not  whence. 
The  most  exact  calculator  has  no  prescience  that  some 
what  incalculable  may  not  baulk  the  very  next  moment. 
T  am  constrained  every  moment  to  acknowledge  a  higher 

4,4,     - 


THE   OVER-SOUL  45 

origin  for  events  than  the  will  I  call  mine. 

As  with  events,  so  is  it  with  thoughts.  When  I  watch 
that  flowing  river,  which,  out  of  regions  I  see  not,  pours 
for  a  season  its  streams  into  me,  —  I  see  that  I  am  a 
pensioner,  —  not  a  cause,  but  a  surprised  spectator  of  this 
ethereal  water;  that  I  desire  and  look  up,  and  put  myself 
in  the  attitude  of  reception,  but  from  some  alien  energy 
the  visions  come. 

The  Supreme  Critic  on  all  the  errors  of  the  past  and 
the  present,  and  the  only  prophet  of  that  which  must 
be,  is  that  great  nature  in  which  we  rest,  as  the  earth  lies 
in  the  soft  arms  of  the  atmosphere;  that  Unity,  that 
Over-Soul,  within  which  every jiirui'n  pnrtirnhr  brin~  is 
contained  and  "made  one'^l^fnil  nther ;  that  common 
heart,  of  which  all  sincere  conversation  is  the  worship,  to 
wmcrT  all  right  action  is  submission;  that  overpowering 
reality  which  confutes  our  tricks  and  talents,  and  con 
strains  every  one  to  pass  for  what  he  is,  and  to  speak 
from  his  character  and  not  from  his  tongue;  and  which 
evermore  tends  and  aims  to  pass  into  our  thought  and 
hand,  and  become  wisdom,  and  virtue,  and  power,  and 
beauty.  We  live  in  succession,  in  division,  in  parts,  in 
particles.  Meantime,  within  man  is  the  soul  of  the 
whole;,  the  wise  silence;  the  universal  beauty,  to  which 
every  part  and  particle  is  equally  related;  the  eternal 
ONE.  And  this  deep  power  in  which  we  exist,  and  whose 
beatitude  is  all  accessible  to  us,  is  not  only  self-sufficing 
and  perfect  in  every  hour,  but  the  act  of  seeing  and  the 
thing  seen,  the  seer  and  the  spectacle,  the  subject  and  the 
object,  are  one.  We  see  the  world  piece  by  piece,  as 
the  sun.  the  moon,  the  animal,  the  tree;  but  the  whole, 
of  which  these  are  the  shining  parts,  is  the  soul.  It  is 
only  by  the  vision  of  that  Wisdom,  that  the  horoscope  of 
the  -ages  can  be  read,  and  it  is  only  by  falling  back  on  our 
better  thoughts,  by  yielding\to  the  spirit  of  prophecy  which 
is  innate  in  every  man,  that  we  can  know  what  it  saith. 
Every  man's  words,  who  speaks  from  that  life,  must  sound 
vain  to  those  who  do  not  dwell  in  the  same  thought  on 
their  own  part.  I  dare  not  speak  for  it.  My  words  do 


46  THE   OVER-SOUL 

not  carry  its  august  sense;  they  fall  short  and  cold.  Only 
itself  can  inspire  whom  it  will,  and,  behold,  their  speech 
shall  be  lyrical,  and  sweet,  and  universal  as  the  rising  of 
the  wind.  Yet  I  desire,  even  by  profane  words,  if  sacred 
I  may  not  use,  to  indicate  the  heaven  of  this  deity,  and 
to  report  what  hints  I  have  collected  of  the  transcendent 
simplicity  and  energy  of  the  Highest  Law. 

If  we  consider  what  happens  in  conversation,  in 
reveries,  in  remorse,  in  times  of  passion,  in  surprises,  in 
the  instructions  of  dreams,  wherein  often  we  see  ourselves 
in  masquerade,  —  the  droll  disguises  only  magnifying  and 
enhancing  a  real  element,  and  forcing  it  on  our  distinct 
notice,  —  we  shall  catch  many  hints  that  will  broaden  and 
lighten  into  knowledge  of  the  secret  of  nature.  All  goes 
to  show  that  the  soul  in  man  is  not  an  organ,  but 
animates  and  exercises  all  the  organs;  is  not  a  function, 
like  the  power  of  memory,  of  calculation,  of  comparison, 
—  but  uses  these  as  hands  and  feet;  is  not  a  faculty,  but 
a  light;  is  not  the  intellect  or  the  will,  but  the  master  of 
the  intellect  and  the  will;  is  the  vast  background  of  our 
being,  in  which  they  lie,  —  an  immensity  not  possessed 
and  that  cannot  be  possessed.  From  within  or  from 
behind,  a  light  shines  through  us  upon  things,  and 
makes  us  aware  that  we  are  nothing,  but  the  light  is  all. 
A  man  is  the  facade  of  a  temple,  wherein  all  wisdom  and 
all  good  abide.  What  we  commonly  call  man,  —  the  eat 
ing,  drinking,  planting,  counting  man,  —  does  not,  as  we 
know  him,  represent  himself,  but  misrepresents  himself. 
Him  we  do  not  respect;  but  the  soul,  whose  organ  he  is, 
would  he  let  it  appear  through  his  action,  would  make 
our  knees  bend.  When  it  breathes  through  his  intellect, 
it  is  genius;  when  it  breathes  through  his  will,  it  is  virtue; 
when  it  flows  through  his  affection,  it  is  love.  And  the 
blindness  of  the  intellect  begins,  when  it  would  be  some 
thing  of  itself.  The  weakness  of  the  will  begins,  when  the 
individual  would  be  something  of  himself.  All  reform 
aims,  in  some  one  particular,  to  let  the  great  soul  have  its 
way  through  us;  in  other  words,  to  engage  us  to  obey. 

Of  this  pure  nature  every  man  is  at  some  time  sensible. 


THE  OVER-SOUL  47 

Language  cannot  paint  it  with  his  colors.  It  is  too  subtle. 
It  is  undefinable,  unmeasurable;  but  we  know  that  it 
pervades  and  contains  us.  We  know  that  all  spiritual 
being  is  in  man.  A  wise  old  proverb  says,  "God  comes 
to  see  us  without  bell:"  that  is,  there  is  no  screen  or 
ceiling  between  our  heads  and  the  infinite  heavens,  so  is 
there  no  bar  or  wall  in  the  soul  where  man,  the  effect, 
ceases,  and  God,  the  cause,  begins.  The  walls  are  taken 
away.  We  lie  open  on  one  side  to  the  deeps  of  spiritual 
nature,  to  all  the  attributes  of  God.  Justice  we  see  and 
know,  Love,  Freedom,  Power.  These  natures  no  man 
ever  got  above,  but  always  they  tower  over  us,  and  most 
in  the  moment  when  our  interests  tempt  us  to  wound 
them. 

The  sovereignty  of  this  nature  whereof  we  speak  is 
made  known  by  its  independency  of  those  limitations  which 
circumscribe  us  on  every  hand.  The  soul  circumscribeth 
all  things.  As  I  have  said,  it  contradicts  all  experience. 
In  like  manner  it  abolishes  time  and  space.  The  influence 
of  the  senses  has,  in  most  men,  overpowered  the  mind 
to  that  degree,  that  the  walls  of  time  and  space  have  come 
to  look  solid,  real,  and  insurmountable;  and  to  speak  with 
levity  of  these  limits  is,  in  the  world,  the  sign  of  insanity. 
Yet  time  and  space  are  but  inverse  measures  of  the  force 
of  the  soul.  A  man  is  capable  of  abolishing  them  both. 
The  spirit  sports  with  time  — 

"Can  crowd  eternity  into  an  hour, 
Or  stretch  an  hour  to  eternity." 

We  are.  often  made  to  feel  that  there  is  another  youth 
and  age  than  that  which  is  measured  from  the  year  of 
our  natural  birth.  Some  thoughts  always  find  us  young, 
and  keep  us  so.  Such  a  thought  is  the  love  of  the  uni 
versal  and  eternal  beauty.  Every  man  parts  from  that 
contemplation  with  the  feeling  that  it  rather  belongs  to 
ages  than  to  mortal  life.  The  least  activity  of  the  intel 
lectual  powers  redeems  us  in  a  degree  from  the  influences 
of  time.'  In  sickness,  in  languor,  give  us  a  strain  of  poetry 
or  a  profound  sentence,  and  we  are  refreshed;  or  produce 


48  THE   OVER-SOUL 

a  volume  of  Plato  or  Shakespeare,  or  remind  us  of  their 
names,  and  instantly  we  come  into  a  feeling  of  longevity. 
See  how  the  deep,  divine  thought  demolishes  centuries 
and  millenniums,  and  makes  itself  present  through  all  ages. 
Is  the  teaching  of  Christ  less  effective  now  than  it  was 
when  first  his  mouth  was  opened?  The  emphasis  of  facts 
and  persons  to  my  soul  has  nothing  to  do  with  time.  And 
so,  always,  the  soul's  scale  is  one;  the  scale  of  the  senses 
and  the  understanding  is  another.  Before  the  great  revela 
tions  of  the  soul,  Time,  Space,  and  Nature  shrink  away. 
In  common  speech,  we  refer  all  things  to  time,  as  we 
habitually  refer  the  immensely  sundered  stars  to  one  con 
cave  sphere.  And  so  we  say  that  the  Judgment  is  distant 
or  near;  that  the  Millennium  approaches;  that  a  day  of 
certain  political,  moral,  social  reforms  is  at  hand;  and  the 
like;  when  we  mean,  that  in  the  nature  of  things,  one  of 
the  facts  we  contemplate  is  external  and  fugitive,  and  the 
other  is  permanent  and  connate  with  the  soul.  The  things 
we  now  esteem  fixed  shall,  one  by  one,  detach  themselves, 
like  ripe  fruit,  from  our  experience,  and  fall.  The  wind 
shall  blow  them  none  knows  whither.  The  landscape,  the 
figures,  Boston,  London,  are  facts  as  fugitive  as  any  insti 
tution  past,  or  any  whiff  of  mist  or  smoke,  and  so  is  society, 
and  so  is  the  world.  The  soul  looketh  steadily  forwards, 
creating  a  world  alway  before  her,  and  leaving  worlds 
alway  behind  her.  She  has  no  dates,  nor  rites,  nor  persons, 
nor  specialties,  nor  men.  The  soul  knows  only  the  soul. 
All  else  is  idle  weeds  for  her  wearing. 

After  its  own  law,  and  not  by  arithmetic,  is  the  rate  of 
its  progress  to  be  computed.  The  soul's  advances  are 
not  made  by  gradation,  such  as  can  be  represented  by 
motion  in  a  straight  line;  but  rather  by  ascension ,  of 
state,  such  as  can  be  represented  by  metamorphosis,— 
from  the  egg  to  the  worm,  from  the  worm  to  the  fly.  The 
growths  of  genius  are  of  a  certain  total  character,  that 
does  not  advance  the  elect  individual  first  over  John, 
then  Adam,  then  Richard,  and  give  to  each  the  pain 
of  discovered  inferiority,  but  by  every  throe  of  growth 
the  man  expands  there  where  he  works,  passing,  at  each 


THE  OVER-SOUL  49 

pulsation,  classes,  populations  of  men.  With  each  divine 
impulse  the  mind  rends  the  thin  rinds  of  the  visible  and 
finite;  arid  comes  out  into  eternity,  and  inspires  and  ex 
pires  its  air.  It  converses  with  truths  that  have  always 
been  spoken  in  the  world,  and  becomes  conscious  of  a 
closer  sympathy  with  Zeno  and  Arrian  than  with  persons 
in  the  house. 

This  is  the  law  of  moral  and  of  mental  gain.  The  simple 
rise  as  by  specific  levity,  not  into  a  particular  virtue,  but 
into  the  region  of  all  the  virtues.  They  are  in  the  spirit 
which  contains  them  all.  The  soul  is  superior  to  all  the 
particulars  of  merit.  The  soul  requires  purity,  but  purity 
is  not  it;  requires  justice,  but  justice  is  not  that;  requires 
beneficence,  but  is  somewhat  better;  so  that  there  is  a 
kind  of  descent  and  accommodation  felt  when  we  leave 
speaking  of  moral  nature,  to  urge  a  virtue  which  it 
enjoins.  For  to  the  soul  in  her  pure  action  all  the  virtues 
are  natural,  and  not  painfully  acquired.  Speak  to  his 
heart,  and  the  man  becomes  suddenly  virtuous. 

"Within  the  same  sentiment  is  the  germ  of  intellectual 
growth,  which  obeys  the  same  law.  Those  who  are  cap 
able  of  humility,  of  justice,  of  love,  of  aspiration,  are 
already  on  a  platform  that  commands  the  sciences  and 
arts,  speech  and  poetry,  action  and  grace.  For  whoso 
dwells  in  this  moral  beatitude  does  already  anticipate 
those  special  powers  which  men  prize  so  highly;  just  as 
love  does  justice  to  all  the  gifts  of  the  object  beloved. 
The  lover  has  no  talent,  no  skill,  which  passes  for  quite 
nothing  with  his  enamored  maiden,  however  little  she 
may  possess  of  related  faculty.  And  the  heart,  which 
abandons  itself  to  the  Supreme  Mind,  finds  itself  related 
to  all  its  works,  and  will  travel  a  royal  road  to  particular 
knowledges  and  powers.  For  in  ascending  to  this  primary 
and  aboriginal  sentiment,  we  have  come  from  our  re 
mote  station  on  the  circumference  instantaneously  to  the 
center  of  the  world,  where,  as  in  the  closet  of  God,  we  see 
causes,  and  anticipate  the  universe,  which  is  but  a  slow 
effect. 

One  mode  of  the  divine  teaching  is  the  incarnation  of 


50  THE  OVER-SOUL 

the  spirit  in  a  form,  —  in  forms  like  my  own.  I  live  in 
society;  with  persons  who  answer  to  thoughts  in  my  own 
mind,  or  outwardly  express  to  me  a  certain  obedience  to 
the  great  instincts  to  which  I  live.  I  see  its  presence  to 
them.  I  am  certified  of  a  common  nature;  and  so  these 
other  souls,  these  separated  selves,  draw  me  as  nothing 
else  can.  They  stir  in  me  the  new  emotions  we  call 
passion;  of  love,  hatred,  fear,  admiration,  pity;  thence 
comes  conversation,  competition,  persuasion,  cities,  and 
war.  Persons  are  supplementary  to  the  primary  teach 
ing  of  the  soul.  In  youth  we  are  mad  for  persons. 
Childhood  and  youth  see  all  the  world  in  them.  But  the 
larger  experience  of  man  discovers  the  identical  nature 
appearing  through  them  all.  Persons  themselves  acquaint 
us  with  the  impersonal.  In  all  conversation  between  two 
persons,  tacit  reference  is  made  as  to  a  third  party,  to  a 
common  nature.  That  third  party  or  common  nature  is 
not  social;  it  is  impersonal,  is  God.  And  so  in  groups 
where  debate  is  earnest,  and  especially  on  great  questions 
of  thought,  the  company  become  aware  of  their  unity; 
aware  that  t-he  thought  rises  to  an  equal  height  in  all 
bosoms,  that  all  have  a  spiritual  property  in  what  was 
said,  as  well  as  the  sayer.  They  all  wax  wiser  than  they 
were.  It  arches  over  them  like  a  temple,  this  unity  of 
thought,  in  which  every  heart  beats  with  nobler  sense  of 
power  and  duty,  and  thinks  and  acts  with  unusual  solemn 
ity.  All  are  conscious  of  attaining  to  a  higher  self-posses 
sion.  It  shines  for  all.  There  is  a  certain  wisdom  of 
humanity  which  is  common  to  the  greatest  men  with  the 
lowest,  and  which  our  ordinary  education  often  labors  to 
silence  and  obstruct.  The  mind  is  one;  and  the  best  minds, 
who  love  truth  for  its  own  sake,  think  much  less  of  prop 
erty  in  truth.  Thankfully  they  accept  it  everywhere,  arid 
do  not  label  or  stamp  it  with  any  man's  name,  for  it  is 
theirs  long  beforehand.  It  is  theirs  from  eternity.  The 
learned  and  the  studious  of  thought  have  no  monopoly  of 
wisdom.  Their  violence  of  direction  in  some  degree  dis 
qualifies  them  to  think  truly.  We  owe  many  valuable 
observations  to  people  who  are  not  very  acute  or  pro- 


THE   OVER-SOUL  51 

found,  and  who  say  the  thing  without  effort,  which  we 
want  and  have  long  been  hunting  in  vain.  The  action  of 
the  soul  is  oftener  in  that  which  is  felt  and  left  unsaid, 
than  in  that  which  is  said  in  any  conversation.  It  broods 
over  every  society,  and  they  unconsciously  seek  for  it  in 
each  other.  We  know  better  than  we  do.  We  do  not  yet 
possess  ourselves,  and  we  know  at  the  same  time  that  we 
are  much  more.  I  feel  the  same  truth  how  often  in  my 
trivial  conversation  with  my  neighbors,  that  somewhat 
higher  in  each  of  us  overlooks  this  by-play,  and  Jove 
nods  to  Jove  from  behind  each  of  us. 

Men  descend  to  meet.  In  their  habitual  and  mean 
service  to  the  world,  for  which  they  forsake  their  native 
nobleness,  they  resemble  those  Arabian  Sheikhs,  who  dwell 
in  mean  houses,  and  affect  an  eternal  poverty,  to  escape 
the  rapacity  of  the  Pasha,  and  reserve  all  their  display  of 
wealth  for  their  interior  and  guarded  retirements. 

As  it  is  present  in  all  persons,  so  it  is  in  every  period 
of  life.  It  is  adult  already  in  the  infant  man.  In  my 
dealing  with  my  child,  my  Latin  and  Greek,  my  accom 
plishments  and  my  money,  stead  me  nothing.  They  are 
all  lost  on  him:  but  as  much  soul  as  I  have  avails.  If  I 
am  merely  wilful,  he  gives  me  a  Rowland  for  an  Oliver, 
sets  his  will  against  mine,  one  for  one,  and  leaves  me,  if 
I  please,  the  degradation  of  beating  him  by  my  superiority 
of  strength.  But  if  I  renounce  my  will,  and  act  for  the 
soul,  setting  that  up  as  umpire  between  us  two,  out  of  his 
young  eyes  looks  the  same  soul;  he  reveres  and  loves 
with  me. 

The  soul  is  the  perceiver  and  revealef  of  truth.  We 
know  truth  when  we  see  it,  let  sceptic  and  scoffer  say 
what  they  choose.  Foolish  people  ask  you,  when  you  have 
spoken  what  they  do  not  wish  to  hear,  "How  do  you 
know  it  is  truth,  and  not  an  error  of  your  own?"  We 
know  truth  when  we  see  it,  from  opinion,  as  we  know 
when  we  are  awake  that  we  are  awake.  It  was  a  grand 
sentence  of  Emanuel  Swedenborg,  which  would  alone  in 
dicate  the  greatness  of  that  man's  perception,  —  "It  is 
no  proof  of  a  man's  understanding  to  be  able  to  affirm 


52  THE   OVER-SOUL 

whatever  he  pleases;  but  to  be  able  to  discern  that  what 
is  true  is  true,  and  that  what  is  false  is  false,  this  is  the 
mark  and  character  of  intelligence."  In  the  book  I  read, 
the  good  thought  returns  to  me,  as  every  truth  will,  the 
image  of  the  whole  soul.  To  the  bad  thought  which  I 
find  in  it,  the  same  soul  becomes  a  discerning,  separating 
sword,  and  lops  it  away.  We  are  wiser  than  we  know.  If 
we  will  not  interfere  with  our  thought,  but  will  act  entirely, 
or  see  how  the  thing  stands  in  God,  we  know  the  par 
ticular  thing,  and  every  thing,  and  every  man.  For  the 
Maker  of  all  things  and  all  persons  stands  behind  us, 
and  casts  his  dread  omniscience  through  us  over  things. 

But  beyond  this  recognition  of  its  own  in  particular 
passages  of  the  individual's  experience,  it  also  reveals  truth. 
And  here  we  should  seek  to  reinforce  ourselves  by  its  very 
presence,  and  to  speak  with  a  worthier,  loftier  strain  of  that 
advent.  For  the  soul's  communication  of  truth  is  the 
highest  event  in  nature;  for  it  then  does  not  give  some 
what  from  itself,  but  it  gives  itself,  or  passes  into  and  be 
comes  that  man  whom  it  enlightens;  or  in  proportion  to 
that  truth  he  receives,  it  takes  him  to  itself. 

We  distinguish  the  announcements  of  the  soul,  its 
manifestations  of  its  own  nature,  by  the  term  Revelation. 
These  are  always  attended  by  the  emotion  of  the  sublime. 
For  this  communication  is  an  influx  of  the  Divine  mind 
into  our  mind.  It  is  an  ebb  of  the  individual  rivulet 
before  the  flowing  surges  of  the  sea  of  life.  Every  distinct 
apprehension  of  this  central  commandment  agitates  men 
with  awe  and  delight.  A  thrill  passes  through  all  men 
at  the  reception  of  new  truth,  or  at  the  performance  of  a 
great  action,  which  comes  out  of  the  heart  of  nature.  In 
these  communications,  the  power  to  see  is  not  separated 
from  the  will  to  do,  but  the  insight  proceeds  from  obedi 
ence,  and  the  obedience  proceeds  from  a  joyful  percep 
tion.  Every  moment  when  the  individual  feels  himself 
invaded  by  it  is  memorable.  Always,  I  believe,  by  the 
necessity  of  our  constitution,  a  certain  enthusiasm  attends 
the  individual's  consciousness  of  that  divine  presence. 
The  character  and  duration  of  this  enthusiasm  varies  with 


THE   OVER-SOUL  53 

the  state  of  the  individual,  from  an  ecstasy  and  trance  and 
prophetic  inspiration,  which  is  its  rarer  appearance,  to  the 
faintest  glow  of  virtuous  emotion,  in  which  form  it  warms, 
like  our  household  fires,  all  the  families  and  associations 
of  men,  and  makes  society  possible.  A  certain  tendency 
to  insanity  has  always  attended  the  opening  of  the  religious 
sense  in  men,  as  if  "blasted  with  excess  of  light."  The 
trances  of  Socrates;  the  "union"  of  Plotinus;  the  vision 
of  Porphyry;  the  conversion  of  Paul;  the  aurora  of 
Behmen;  the  convulsions  of  George  Fox  and  his  Quakers; 
the  illumination  of  Swedenborg;  are  of  this  kind.  What 
was  in  the  case  of  these  remarkable  persons  a  ravishment 
has  in  innumerable  instances  in  common  life  been  ex 
hibited  in  less  striking  manner.  Everywhere  the  history 
of  religion  betrays  a  tendency  to  enthusiasm.  The  rapture 
of  the  Moravian  and  Quietest;  the  opening  of  the  internal 
sense  of  the  Word,  in  the  language  of  the  New  Jerusalem 
Church;  the  revival  of  the  Calvinistic  Churches;  the  ex 
periences  of  the  Methodists, — are  varying  forms  of  that 
shudder  of  awe  and  delight  with  which  the  individual  soul 
always  mingles  with  the  universal  soul. 

The  nature  of  these  revelations  is  always  the  same. 
They  are  perceptions  of  the  absolute  law:  they  are  solu 
tions  of  the  soul's  own  questions.  They  do  not  answer 
the  questions  which  the  understanding  asks.  The  soul 
answers  never  by  words,  but  by  the  thing  itself  that  is 
inquired  after. 

Revelation  is  the  disclosure  of  the  soul.  The  popular 
notion  of  a  revelation  is,  that  it  is  a  telling  of  fortunes. 
In  past  oracles  of  the  soul,  the  understanding  seeks  to  find 
answers  to  sensual  questions,  and  undertakes  to  tell  from 
God  how  long  men  shall  exist,  what  their  hands  shall  do, 
and  who  shall  be  their  company,  adding  even  names, 
and  dates  and  places.  But  we  must  pick  no  locks.  We 
must  check  this  low  curiosity.  An  answer  in  words  is 
delusive;  it  is  really  no  answer  to  the  questions  you  ask. 
Do  not  ask  a  description  of  the  countries  towards  which 
you  sail.  The  description  does  not  describe  them  to  you; 
and  to-morrow  you  arrive  there,  and  know  them  by  in- 


54  THE   OVER-SOUL 

habiting  them.  Men  ask  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul, 
and  the  employments  of  heaven,  and  the  state  of  the 
sinner,  and  so  forth.  They  even  dream  that  Jesus  has 
left  replies  to  precisely  these  interrogatories.  Never  a 
moment  did  that  sublime  spirit  speak  in  their  patois.  To 
truth,  justice,  love,  the  attributes  of  the  soul,  the  idea 
of  immutableness  is  essentially  associated.  Jesus,  living 
in  these  moral  sentiments,  heedless  of  sensual  fortunes, 
heeding  only  the  manifestations  of  these,  never  made  the 
separation  of  the  idea  of  duration  from  the  essence  of 
these  attributes;  never  uttered  a  syllable  concerning  the 
duration  of  the  soul.  It  was  left  to  his  disciples  to  sever 
duration  from  the  moral  elements,  and  to  teach  the  im 
mortality  of  the  soul  as  a  doctrine,  and  maintain  it  by 
evidences.  The  moment  the  doctrine  of  the  immortality 
is  separately  taught,  man  is  already  fallen.  In  the  flowing 
of  love,  in  the  adoration  of  humility,  there  is  no  question 
of  continuance.  No  inspired  man  ever  asks  this  question, 
or  condescends  to  these  evidences.  For  the  soul  is  true 
to  itself;  and  the  man  in  whom  it  is  shed  abroad  cannot 
wander  from  the  present,  which  is  infinite,  to  a  future, 
which  would  be  finite. 

These  questions  which  we  lust  to  ask  about  the  future 
are  a  confession  of  sin.  God  has  no  answer  for  them. 
No  answer  in  words  can  reply  to  a  question  of  things. 
It  is  not  in  an  arbitrary  "decree  of  God,"  but  in  the 
nature  of  man,  that  a  veil  shuts  down  on  the  facts  of 
to-morrow:  for  the  soul  will  not  have  us  read  any  other 
cipher  but  that  of  cause  and  effect.  By  this  veil,  which 
curtains  events,  it  instructs  the  children  of  men  to  live  in 
to-day.  The  only  mode  of  obtaining  an  answer  to  these 
questions  of  the  senses,  is  to  forego  all  low  curiosity, 
and  accepting  the  tide  of  being  which  floats  us  into  the 
secret  of  nature,  work  and  live,  work  and  live,  and  all 
unawares  the  advancing  soul  has  built  and  forged  for 
itself  a  new  condition,  and  the  question  and  the  answer 
are  one. 

Thus  is  the  soul  the  perceiver  and  revealer  of  truth. 
By  the  same  fire,  serene,  impersonal,  perfect,  which  burns 


THE   OVER-SOUL  55 

until  it  shall  dissolve  all  things  into  the  waves  and  surges 
of  an  ocean  of  light,  —  we  see  and  know  each  other,  and 
what  spirit  each  is  of.  Who  can  tell  the  grounds  of  his 
knowledge  of  the  character  of  the  several  individuals  in 
his  circle  of  friends?  No  man.  Yet  their  acts  and  words 
do  not  disappoint  him.  In  that  man,  though  he  knew  no 
ill  of  him,  he  put  no  trust.  In  that  other,  though  they 
had  seldom  met,  authentic  signs  had  yet  passed  to  signify 
that  he  might  be  trusted  as  one  who  had  an  interest  in  his 
own  character.  We  know  each  other  very  well,  —  which 
of  us  has  been  just  to  himself,  and  whether  that  which  we 
teach  or  behold  is  only  an  inspiration,  or  is  our  honest 
effort  also. 

We  are  all  discerners  of  spirits.  That  diagnosis  lies 
aloft  in  our  life  or  unconscious  power,  not  in  the  under 
standing.  The  whole  intercourse  of  society,  its  trade,  its 
religion,  its  friendships,  its  quarrels,  —  is  one  wide  judicial 
investigation  of  character.  In  full  court,  or  in  small  com 
mittee,  or  confronted  face  to  face,  accuser  and  accused, 
men  offer  themselves  to  be  judged.  Against  their  will 
they  exhibit  those  decisive  trifles  by  which  character  is 
read.  But  who  judges?  and  what?  Not  our  understand 
ing.  WTe  do  not  read  them  by  learning  or  craft.  No; 
the  wisdom  of  the  wise  man  consists  herein,  that  he  does 
not  judge  them;  he  lets  them  judge  themselves,  and  merely 
reads  and  records  their  own  verdict. 

By  virtue  of  this  inevitable  nature,  private  will  is  over 
powered,  and,  maugre  our  efforts  or  our  imperfections, 
your  genius  will  speak  from  you,  and  mine  from  me. 
That  which  we  are,  we  shall  teach,  not  voluntarily,  but 
involuntarily.  Thoughts  come  into  our  minds  by  avenues 
which  we  never  left  open,  and  thoughts  go  out  of  our 
minds  through  avenues  which  we  never  voluntarily 
opened.  Character  teaches  over  our  head.  The  infallible 
index  of  true  progress  is  found  in  the  tone  the  man  takes. 
Neither  his  age,  nor  his  breeding,  nor  company,  nor 
books,  nor  actions,  nor  talents,  nor  all  together,  can  hinder 
him  from  being  deferential  to  a  higher  spirit  than  his  own. 
If  he  have  not  found  his  home  in  God,  his  manners,  his 


56  THE   OVER-SOUL 

forms  of  speech,  the  turn  of  his  sentences,  the  build, 
shall  I  say,  of  all  his  opinions,  will  involuntarily  confess 
it,  let  him  brave  it  out  how  he  will.  If  he  have  found  his 
center,  the  Deity  will  shine  through  him,  through  all  the 
disguises  of  ignorance,  of  ungenial  temperament,  of  un 
favorable  circumstance.  The  tone  of  seeking  is  one,  and 
the  tone  of  having  is  another. 

The  great  distinction  between  teachers  sacred  or  literary, 
between  poets  like  Herbert,  and  poets  like  Pope;  between 
philosophers  like  Spinoza,  Kant,  and  Coleridge,  —  and  phil 
osophers  like  Locke,  Paley,  Mackintosh,  and  Stewart;  be 
tween  men  of  the  world  who  are  reckoned  accomplished 
talkers,  and  here  and  there  a  fervent  mystic,  prophesying 
half-insane  under  the  infinitude  of  his  thought,  is,  that 
one  class  speak  from  within,  or  from  experience,  as  parties 
and  possessors  of  the  fact;  and  the  other  class,  from  with 
out,  as  spectators  merely,  or  perhaps  as  acquainted  writh 
the  fact  on  the  evidence  of  third  persons.  It  is  of  no  use 
to  preach  to  me  from  without.  I  can  do  that  too  easily 
myself.  Jesus  speaks  always  from  within,  and  in  a  degree 
that  transcends  all  others.  In  that  is  the  miracle.  That 
includes  the  miracle.  My  soul  believes  beforehand  that 
it  ought  so  to  be.  All  men  stand  continually  in  the 
expectation  of  the  appearance  of  such  a  teacher.  But  if 
a  man  do  not  speak  from  within  the  veil,  where  the  word 
is  one  with  that  it  tells  of,  let  him  lowly  confess  it. 

The  same  Omniscience  flows  into  the  intellect,  and  makes 
what  we  call  genius.  Much  of  the  wisdom  of  the  world  is. 
not  wisdom,  and  the  most  illuminated  class  of  men  are 
no  doubt  superior  to  literary  fame,  and  are  not  writers. 
Among  the  multitude  of  scholars  and  authors  we  feel  no 
hallowing  presence;  we  are  sensible  of  a  knack  and  skill 
rather  than  of  inspiration ;  they  have  a  light,  and  know 
not  whence  it  comes,  and  call  it  their  own;  their  talent 
is  some  exaggerated  faculty,  some  overgrown  member, 
so  that  their  strength  is  a  disease.  In  these  instances 
the  intellectual  gifts  do  not  make  the  impression  of  virtue, 
but  almost  of  vice;  and  we  feel  that  a  man's  talents  stand 
in  the  way  of  his  advancement  in  truth.  But  genius  is 


THE   OVER-SOUL  57 

religious.  It  is  a  larger  imbibing  of  the  common  heart. 
It  is  not  anomalous,  but  more  like,  and  not  less  like, 
other  men.  There  is  in  all  great  poets  a  wisdom  of  hu 
manity,  which  is  superior  to  any  talents  they  exercise. 
The  author,  the  wit,  the  partisan,  the  fine  gentleman,  does 
not  take  place  of  the  man.  Humanity  shines  in  Homer, 
in  Chaucer,  in  Spenser,  in  Shakespeare,  in  Milton.  They 
are  content  with  truth.  They  use  the  positive  degree. 
They  seem  frigid  and  phlegmatic  to  those  who  have  been 
spiced  with  the  frantic  passion  and  violent  coloring  of 
inferior,  but  popular  writers.  For  they  are  poets  by  the 
free  course  which  they  allow  to  the  informing  soul,  which 
through  their  eyes  beholdeth  again,  and  blesseth  the  things 
which  it  hath  made.  The  soul  is  superior  to  its  knowledge, 
wiser  than  any  of  its  works.  The  great  poet  makes  us 
feel  our  own  wealth,  and  then  we  think  less  of  his  compo 
sitions.  His  greatest  communication  to  our  mind  is,  to 
teach  us  to  despise  all  he  has  done.  Shakespeare  carries 
us  to  such  a  lofty  strain  of  intelligent  activity,  as  to  sug 
gest  a  wealth  which  beggars  his  own;  and  we  then  feel 
that  the  splendid  works  which  he  has  created,  and  which 
in  other  hours  we  extol  as  a  sort  of  self-existent  poetry, 
take  no  stronger  hold  of  real  nature  than  the  shadow  of 
a  passing  traveler  on  the  rock.  The  inspiration  which 
uttered  itself  in  Hamlet  and  Lear  could  utter  things  as 
good  from  day  to  day  forever.  Why  then  should  I  make 
account  of  Hamlet  and  Lear,  as  if  we  had  not  the  soul 
from  which  they  fell  as  syllables  from  the  tongue? 

This  energy  does  not  descend  into  individual  life  on  any 
other  condition  than  entire  possession.  It  comes  to  the 
lowly  and  simple;  it  comes  to  whomsoever  will  put  off 
what  is  foreign  and  proud;  it  comes  as  insight;  it  comes 
as  serenity  and  grandeur.  When  we  see  those  whom  it 
inhabits,  we  are  apprised  of  new  degrees  of  greatness. 
From  that  inspiration  the  man  comes  back  with  a  changed 
tone.  He  does  not  talk  with  men  with  an  eye  to  their 
opinion.  He  tries  them.  It  requires  of  us  to  be  plain  and 
true.  The  vain  traveler  attempts  to  embellish  his  life 
by  quoting  my  Lord,  and  the  Prince,  and  the  Countess, 


58  THE   OVER-SOUL 

who  thus  said  or  did  to  him.  The  ambitious  vulgar  show 
you  their  spoons,  and  brooches,  and  rings,  and  preserve 
their  cards  and  compliments.  The  more  cultivated,  in 
their  account  of  their  own  experience,  cull  out  the  pleasing 
poetic  circumstance;  the  visit  to  Rome;  the  man  of  genius 
thej''  saw;  the  brilliant  friend  they  know;  still  further 
on,  perhaps,  the  gorgeous  landscape,  the  mountain  lights, 
the  mountain  thoughts,  they  enjoyed  yesterday,  —  and 
so  seek  to  throw  a  romantic  color  over  their  life.  But  the 
soul  that  ascendeth  to  worship  the  great  God  is  plain  and 
true;  has  no  rose-color;  no  fine  friends;  no  chivalry;  no 
adventures;  does  not  want  admiration;  dwells  in  the  hour 
that  now  is,  in  the  earnest  experience  of  the  common  day, 
—  by  reason  of  the  present  moment  and  the  mere  trifle 
having  become  porous  to  thought,  and  bibulous  of  the 
sea  of  light. 

Converse  with  a  mind  that  is  grandly  simple,  and 
literature  looks  like  word-catching.  The  simplest  utter 
ances  are  worthiest  to  be  written,  yet  are  they  so  cheap, 
and  so  things  of  course,  that  in  the  infinite  riches  of  the 
soul,  it  is  like  gathering  a  few  pebbles  off  the  ground,  or 
bottling  a  little  air  in  a  phial,  when  the  whole  earth  and 
the  whole  atmosphere  are  ours.  The  mere  author,  in 
such  society,  is  like  a  pickpocket  among  gentlemen,  who 
has  come  in  to  steal  a  gold  button  or  a  pin.  Nothing 
can  pass  there,  or  make  you  one  of  the  circle,  but  the 
casting  aside  your  trappings,  and  dealing  man  to  man  in 
naked  truth,  plain  confession  and  omniscient  affirmation. 

Souls  such  as  these  treat  you  as  gods  would;  walk  as 
gods  in  the  earth;  accepting  without  any  admiration  your 
wit,  your  bounty,  your  virtue  even,  say  rather  your  act  of 
duty,  —  for  your  virtue  they  own  as  their  proper  blood, 
royal  as  themselves,  and  over-royal,  and  the  father  of  the 
gods.  But  what  rebuke  their  plain  fraternal  bearing  casts 
on  the  mutual  flattery  with  which  authors  solace  each 
other,  and  wound  themselves!  These  flatter  not.  I  do  not 
wonder  that  these  men  go  to  see  Cromwell,  and  Christina, 
and  Charles  II.,  and  James  I.,  and  the  Grand  Turk.  For 
they  are  in  their  own  elevation  the  fellows  of  kings,  and 


THE   OVER-SOUL  59 

must  feel  the  servile  tone  of  conversation  in  the  world. 
They  must  always  be  a  godsend  to  princes,  for  they  con 
front  them,  a  king  to  a  king,  without  ducking  or  con 
cession,  and  give  a  high  nature  the  refreshment  and  satis 
faction  of  resistance,  of  plain  humanity,  of  even  compan 
ionship,  and  of  new  ideas.  They  leave  them  wiser  and 
superior  men.  Souls  like  these  make  us  feel  that  sincerity 
is  more  excellent  than  flattery.  Deal  so  plainly  with  man 
and  woman,  as  to  constrain  the  utmost  sincerity,  and  destroy 
all  hope  of  trifling  with  you.  It  is  the  highest  compliment 
you  can  pay.  Their  "highest  praising,"  said  Milton,  "is 
not  flattery;  and  their  plainest  advice  is  a  kind  of 
praising." 

Ineffable  is  the  union  of  man  and  God  in  every  act 
of  the  soul.  The  simplest  person,  who  in  his  integrity 
worships  God,  becomes  God;  yet  forever  and  ever  the 
influx  of  this  better  and  universal  self  is  new  and  un 
searchable;  ever  it  aspires  awe  and  astonishment.  How 
dear,  how  soothing  to  man,  arises  the  idea  of  God  peopling 
the  lonely  place,  effacing  the  scars  of  our  mistakes  and 
disappointments!  When  we  have  broken  our  god  of  tra 
dition,  and  ceased  from  our  god  of  rhetoric,  then  may  God 
fire  the  heart  with  his  presence.  It  is  the  doubling  of  the 
heart  itself,  nay,  the  infinite  enlargement  of  the  heart  with 
a  power  of  growth  to  a  new  infinity  on  every  side.  It 
inspires  in  man  an  infallible  trust.  He  has  not  the  con 
viction,  but  the  sight  that  the  best  is  the  true,  and  may  in 
that  thought  easily  dismiss  all  particular  uncertainties  and 
fears,  and  adjourn  to  the  sure  revelation  of  time  the  solu 
tion  of  his  private  riddles.  He  is  sure  that  his  welfare  is 
dear  to  the  heart  of  being.  In  the  presence  of  law  to  his 
mind,  he  is  overflowed  with  a  reliance  so  universal,  that 
it  sweeps  away  all  cherished  hopes  and  the  most  stable 
projects  of  mortal  condition  in  its  flood.  He  believes  that 
he  cannot  escape  from  his  good.  The  things  that  are  really 
for  thee  gravitate  to  thee.  You  are  running  to  seek  your 
friend.  Let  your  feet  run,  but  your  mind  need  not.  If 
you  do  not  find  him,  will  you  not  acquiesce  that  it  is 
best  you  should  not  find  him  ?  for  there  is  a  power,  which, 


60  THE   OVER-SOUL 

as  it  is  in  you,  is  in  him  also,  and  could  therefore  very 
well  bring  you  together,  if  it  were  for  the  best.  You  are 
preparing  with  eagerness  to  go  and  render  a  service  to 
which  your  talent  and  your  taste  invite  you,  the  love  of 
men,  and  the  hope  of  fame.  Has  it  not  occurred  to  you, 
that  you  have  no  right  to  go,  unless  you  are  equally 
willing  to  be  prevented  from  going?  0  believe,  as  thou 
livest,  that  every  sound  that  is  spoken  over  the  round  world, 
which  thou  oughtest  to  hear,  will  vibrate  on  thine  ear. 
Every  proverb,  every  book,  every  by-word  that  belongs 
to  thee  for  aid  or  comfort,  shall  surely  come  home  through 
open  or  winding  passages.  Every  friend  whom  not  thy 
fantastic  will,  but  the  great  and  tender  heart  in  thee 
craveth,  shall  lock  thee  in  his  embrace.  And  this,  be 
cause  the  heart  in  thee  is  the  heart  of  all;  not  a  valve,  not 
a  wall,  not  an  intersection  is  there  anywhere  in  nature,  but 
one  blood  rolls  uninterruptedly,  an  endless  circulation, 
through  all  men,  as  the  water  of  the  globe  is  all  one  se&, 
and,  truly  seen,  its  tide  is  one. 

Let  man,  then,  learn  the  revelation  of  all  nature,  and 
all  thought  to  his  heart;  this,  namely,  that  the  Highest 
dwells  with  him;  that  the  sources  of  nature  are  in  his 
own  mind,  if  the  sentiment  of  duty  is  there.  But  if  he 
would  know  what  the  great  God  speaketh,  he  must  "go 
into  his  closet  and  shut  the  door,"  as  Jesus  said.  God 
will  not  make  himself  manifest  to  cowards.  He  must 
greatly  listen  to  himself,  withdrawing  himself  from  all  the 
accents  of  other  men's  devotion.  Their  prajrers  even  are 
hurtful  to  him,  until  he  have  made  his  own.  The  soul 
makes  no  appeal  from  itself.  Our  religion  vulgarly 
stands  on  numbers  of  believers.  Whenever  the  appeal  is 
made, — no  matter  how  indirectly, — to  numbers,  procla 
mation  is  then  and  there  made,  that  religion  is  not.  He 
that  finds  God  a  sweet,  enveloping  thought  to  him,  never 
counts  his  company.  When  I  sit  in  that  presence,  who 
shall  dare  to  come  in?  When  I  rest  in  perfect  humility, 
when  I  burn  with  pure  love,  what  can  Calvin  or  Sweden- 
borg  say? 

It  makes  no  difference  whether  the  appeal  is  to  numbers 


THE   OVER-SOUL  61 

or  to  one.  The  faith  that  stands  on  authority  is  not 
faith.  The  reliance  on  authority  measures  the  decline  of 
religion,  the  withdrawal  of  the  soul.  The  position  men 
have  given  to  Jesus  now  for  many  centuries  of  history  is 
a  position  of  authority.  It  characterizes  themselves.  It 
cannot  alter  the  eternal  facts.  Great  is  the  soul,  and 
plain.  It  is  no  flatterer,  it  is  no  follower;  it  never  appeals 
from  itself.  It  always  believes  in  itself.  Before  the 
immense  possibilities  of  man,  all  mere  experience,  all  past 
biography,  however  spotless  and  sainted,  shrinks  away. 
Before  that  holy  heaven  which  our  presentiments 
foreshew  us,  we  cannot  easily  praise  any  form  of  life  we 
have  seen  or  read  of.  We  not  only  affirm  that  we  have 
few  great  men,  but,  absolutely  speaking,  that  we  have 
none;  that  we  have  no  history,  no  record  of  any  character 
or  mode  of  living  that  entirely  contents  us.  The  saints 
and  demigods  whom  history  worships,  we  are  constrained 
to  accept  with  a  grain  of  allowance.  Though  in  our 
lonely  hours  we  draw  a  new  strength  out  of  their  memory, 
yet  pressed  on  our  attention,  as  they  are  by  the  thought 
less  and  customary,  they  fatigue  and  invade.  The  soul 
gives  itself  alone,  original,  and  pure  to  the  Lonely, 
Original,  and  Pure,  who,  on  that  condition,  gladly  in 
habits,  leads,  and  speaks  through*  it.  Then  is  it  glad, 
young,  and  nimble.  It  is  not  wise,  but  it  sees  through  all 
things.  It  is  not  called  religious,  but  it  is  innocent.  It 
calls  the  light  its  own,  and  feels  that  the  grass  grows  and 
the  stone  falls  by  a  law  inferior  to  and  dependent  on  its 
nature.  Behold,  it  saith,  I  am  born  into  the  great,  the 
universal  mind.  I  the  imperfect  adore  my  own  Perfect. 
I  am  somehow  receptive  of  the  great  soul,  and  thereby  I 
do  overlook  the  sun  and  the  stars,  and  feel  them  to  be 
but  the  fair  accidents  and  effects  which  change  and  pass. 
More  and  more  the  surges  of  everlasting  nature  enter 
into  me,  and  I  become  public  and  human  in  my  regards 
and  actions.  So  come  I  to  live  in  thoughts,  and  act  with 
energies  which  are  immortal.  Thus  revering  the  soul,  and 
learning,  as  the  ancient  said,  that  "its  beauty  is  immense," 
man  will  come  to  see  that  the  world  is  the  perennial  miracle 


62  THE   OVER-SOUL 

which  the  soul  worketh,  and  be  less  astonished  at  particular 
wonders;  he  will  learn  that  there  is  no  profane  history; 
that  all  history  is  sacred;  that  the  universe  is  represented 
in  an  atom,  in  a  moment  of  time.  He  will  weave  no 
longer  a  spotted  life  of  shreds  and  patches,  but  he  will 
live  with  a  divine  unity.  He  will  cease  from  what  is  base 
and  frivolous  in  his  life,  and  be  content  with  all 
places  and  any  service  he  can  render.  He  will  calmly  front 
the  morrow  in  the  negligency  of  that  trust  which  carries 
God  with  it,  and  so  hath  already  the  whole  future  in  the 
bottom  of  the  heart. 


Ill 

HISTORY 

There  is  no  great  and  no  small 
To  the  Soul  that  maketh  all: 
And  where  it  cometh,  all  things  are; 
And  it  cometh  every  where. 

I  am  owner  of  the  sphere, 

Of  the  seven  stars  and  the  solar  year, 

Of  Caesar's  hand,  and  Plato's  brain, 

Of  Lord  Christ's  heart,  and  Shakespeare's  strain. 

THERE  is  one  mind  common  to  all  individual  men.  Every 
man  is  an  inlet  to  the  same  and  to  all  of  the  same.  He 
that  is  once  admitted  to  the  right  of  reason  is  made  a 
freeman  of  the  whole  estate.  What  Plato  has  thought,  he 
may  think;  what  a  saint  has  felt,  he  may  feel;  what 
at  any  time  has  befallen  any  man,  he  can  understand. 
Who  hath  access  to  this  universal  mind,  is  a  party  to  all 
that  is  or  can  be  done,  for  this  is  the  only  and  sovereign 
agent. 

Of  the  works  of  this  mind  history  is  the  record.  Its 
genius  is  illustrated  by  the  entire  series  of  days.  Man  is 
explicable  by  nothing  less  than  all  his  history.  Without 
hurry,  without  rest,  the  human  spirit  goes  forth  from  the 
beginning  to  embody  every  faculty,  every  thought,  every 
emotion,  which  belongs  to  it,  in  appropriate  events.  But 
always  the  thought  is  prior  to  the  fact;  all  the  facts  of 
history  pre-exist  in  the  mind  as  laws.  Each  law  in  turn 
is  made  by  circumstances  predominant,  and  the  limits  of 
nature  give  power  to  but  one  at  a  time.  A  man  is  the 
whole  encyclopaedia  of  facts.  The  creation  of  a  thousand 
forests  is  in  one  acorn;  and  Egypt,  Greece,  Rome,  Gaul, 
Britain,  America,  lie  folded  already  in  the  first  man. 
Epoch  after  epoch,  camp,  kingdom,  empire,  republic,  de-  ! 
mocracy.  are  merely  the  application  of  his  manifold  soirit j 


64  HISTORY 

to  the  manifold  world. 

This  human  mind  wrote  history,  and  this  must  read  it. 
The  Sphinx  must  solve  her  own  riddle.  If  the  whole  of 
history  is  in  one  man,  it  is  all  to  be  explained  from  indi 
vidual  experience.  There  is  a  relation  between  the  hours- 
of  our  life  and  the  centuries  of  time.  As  the  air  I  breathe 
is  drawn  from  the  great  repositories  of  nature,  as  the  light 
on  my  book  is  yielded  by  a  star  a  hundred  millions  of 
miles  distant,  as  the  poise  of  my  body  depends  on  the 
equilibrium  of  centrifugal  and  centripetal  forces,  so  the 
hours  should  be  instructed  by  the  ages,  and  the  ages 
explained  by  the  hours.  Of  the  universal  mind  each  in 
dividual  man  is  one  more  incarnation.  All  its  properties 
consist  in  him.  Every  step  in  his  private  experience 
flashes  a  light  on  what  great  bodies  of  men  have  done, 
and  the  crises  of  his  life  refer  to  national  crises.  Every 
revolution  was  first  a  thought  in  one  man's  mind;  and 
when  the  same  thought  occurs  to  another  man,  it  is  the 
key  to  that  era.  Every  reform  was  once  a  private  opin 
ion;  and  when  it  shall  be  a  private  opinion  again,  it 
will  solve  the  problem  of  the  age.  The  fact  narrated 
must  correspond  to  something  in  me  to  be  credible  or 
intelligible.  We  as  we  read  must  become  Greeks,  Romans, 
Turks,  priest  and  king,  martyr  and  executioner,  must 
fasten  these  images  to  some  reality  in  our  secret  ex 
perience,  or  we  shall  see  nothing,  learn  nothing,  keep 
nothing.  What  befel  Asdrubal  or  Caesar  Borgia  is  as 
much  an  illustration  of  the  mind's  powers  and  deprava 
tions  as  what  has  befallen  us.  Each  new  law  and  political 
movement  has  meaning  for  you.  Stand  before  each  of 
its  tablets  and  say,  "Here  is  one  of  my  coverings.  Under 
this  fantastic,  or  odious,  or  graceful  mask  did  my  Proteus 
nature  hide  itself.1'  This  remedies  the  defect  of  our  too 
great  nearness  to  ourselves.  This  throws  our  own  actions 
into  perspective:  and  as  crabs,  goats,  scorpions,  the 
balance  and  the  wraterpot,  lose  all  their  meanness  when 
hung  as  signs  in  the  zodiac,  so  I  can  see  my  own  vices 
without  heat  in  the  distant  persons  of  Solomon,  Alcibiades, 
and  Catiline. 


HISTORY  65 

It  is  this  universal  nature  which  gives  worth  to  par 
ticular  men  and  things.  Human  life  as  containing  this 
is  mysterious  and  inviolable,  and  we  hedge  it  round  with 
penalties  and  laws.  All  laws  derive  hence  their  ultimate 
reason,  all  express  at  last  reverence  for  some  command 
of  this  supreme  illimitable  essence.  Property  also  holds 
of  the  soul,  covers  great  spiritual  facts,  and  instinctively 
we  at  first  hold  to  it  with  swords  and  laws,  and  wide  and 
complex  combinations.  The  obscure  consciousness  of  this 
fact  is  the  light  of  all  our  day,  the  claim  of  claims;  the 
plea  for  education,  for  justice,  for  charity,  the  foundation 
of  friendship  and  love,  and  of  the  heroism  and  grandeur 
which  belongs  to  acts  of  self-reliance.  It  is  remarkable 
that  involuntarily  wre  always  read  as  superior  beings. 
Universal  history,  the  poets,  the  romancers,  do  not  in 
their  stateliest  pictures,  —  in  the  sacerdotal,  the  imperial 
palaces,  in  the  triumphs  of  will,  or  of  genius,  any  where 
lose  our  ear,  any  where  make  us  feel  that  we  intrude, 
that  this  is  for  our  betters;  but  rather  is  it  true,  that  in 
their  grandest  strokes,  there  we  feel  most  at  home.  All 
that  Shakespeare  says  of  the  king,  yonder  slip  of  a  boy 
that  reads  in  the  corner  feels  to  be  true  of  himself.  We 
sympathize  in  the  great  moments  of  history  in  the  great 
discoveries,  the  great  resistances,  the  great  prosperities,  of 
men; — because  there  law  was  enacted,  the  sea  was  searched, 
the  land  was  found,  or  the  blow  was  struck  for  us,  as  we 
ourselves  in  that  place  would  have  done  or  applauded. 

So  is  it  in  respect  to  condition  and  character.  We 
honor  the  rich,  because  they  have  externally  the  freedom, 
power,  and  grace  which  we  feel  to  be  proper  to  man, 
proper  to  us.  So  all  that  is  said  of  the  wise  man  by 
stoic,  or  oriental  or  modern  essayist,  describes  to  each  man 
his  own  idea,  describes  his  unattainecl  but  attainable  self. 
All  literature  writes  the  character  of  the  wise  man.  All 
books,  monuments,  pictures,  conversation,  are  portraits 
in  which  the  wise  man  finds  the  lineaments  he  is  form 
ing.  The  silent  and  the  loud  praise  him,  and  accost  him, 
and  he  is  stimulated  wherever  he  moves  as  by  personal 
allusions.  A  wise  and  -good  soul,  therefore^ -never  needs 


66  HISTORY 

look  for  allusions  personal  and  laudatory  in  discourse. 
He  hears  the  commendation,  not  of  himself,  but  more 
sweet,  of  that  character  he  seeks,  in  every  word  that 
is  said  concerning  character,  yea,  further,  in  every  fact 
that  befalls, — in  the  running  river  and  the  rustling  corn. 
Praise  is  looked,  homage  tendered,  love  flows  from  mute 
nature,  from  the  mountains  and  the  lights  of  the  firmament. 

These  hints,  dropped  as  it  were  from  sleep  and  night, 
let  us  use  in  broad  day.  The  student  is  to  read  history 
actively  and  not  passively;  to  esteem  his  own  life  the 
text,  and  books  the  commentary.  Thus  compelled,  the 
muse  of  history  will  utter  oracles,  as  never  to  those  who 
do  not  respect  themselves.  I  have  no  expectation  that 
any  man  will  read  history  aright,  who  thinks  that  what 
was  done  in  a  remote  age,  by  men  whose  names  have 
resounded  far,  has  any  deeper  sense  than  what  he  is 
doing  to-day. 

The  world  exists  for  the  education  of  each  man.  There 
is  no  age  or  state  of  society,  or  mode  of  action  in  history, 
to  which  there  is  not  somewhat  corresponding  in  his  life. 
Every  thing  tends  in  a  most  wonderful  manner  to  abbre 
viate  itself  and  yield  its  own  virtue  to  him.  He  should 
see  that  he  can  live  all  history  in  his  own  person.  He 
must  sit  at  home  with  might  and  main,  and  not  suffer 
himself  to  be  bullied  by  kings  or  empires,  but  know  that 
he  is  greater  than  all  the  geography  and  all  the  govern 
ment  of  the  world;  he  must  transfer  the  point  of  view 
from  which  history  is  commonly  read,  from  Rome  and 
Athens  and  London  to  himself,  and  not  deny  his  con 
viction  that  he  is  the  Court,  and  if  England  or  Egypt 
have  any  thing  to  say  to  him,  he  will  try  the  case;  if  not, 
let  them  forever  be  silentj  He  must  attain  and  maintain 
that  lofty  sight  where  facts  yield  their  secret  sense,  and 
poetry  and  annals  are  alike.  The  instinct  of  the  mind, 
the  purpose  of  nature  betrays  itself  in  the  use  we  make 
of  the  signal  narrations  of  history.  Time  dissipates  to 
shining  ether  the  solid  angularity  of  facts.  No  anchor, 
no  cable,  no  fences  avail  to  keep  a  fact  a  fact.  Babylon 
and  Troy  and  Tyre,  and  even  early  Rome,  are  passing 


HISTORY  67 

already  into  fiction.  The  Garden  of  Eden,  the  Sun  stand 
ing  still  in  Gibeon,  is  poetry  thenceforward  to  all  nations. 
Who  cares  what  the  fact  was,  when  we  have  thus  made 
a  constellation  of  it  to  hang  in  heaven  an  immortal  sign? 
London  and  Paris  and  New  York  must  go  the  same  way. 
"What  is  history/'  said  Napoleon,  "but  a  fable  agreed 
upon?"  This  life  of  ours  is  stuck  round  with  Egypt, 
Greece,  Gaul,  England,  War,  Colonization,  Church,  Court, 
and  Commerce,  as  with  so  many  flowers  and  wild  orna 
ments  grave  and  gay.  I  will  not  make  more  account  of 
them.  I  believe  in  Eternity.  I  can  find  Greece,  Palestine, 
Italy,  Spain,  and  the  Islands,  —  the  genius  and  creative 
principle  of  each  and  of  all  eras  in  my  own  mind. 

We  are  always  coming  up  with  the  facts  that  have 
moved  us  in  history  in  our  private  experience,  and  veri 
fying  them  here.  All  history  becomes  subjective;  in  other 
words,  there  is  properly  no  History;  only  Biography. 
Every  soul  must  know  the  whole  lesson  for  itself  —  must 
go  over  the  whole  ground.  What  it  does  not  see,  what 
it  does  not  live,  it  will  not  know.  What  the  former  age 
has  epitomized  into  a  formula  or  rule  for  manipular  con 
venience,  it  will  lose  all  the  good  of  verifying  for  itself, 
by  means  of  the  \vall  of  that  rule.  Somewhere  or  other, 
some  time  or  other,  it  will  demand  and  find  compensa 
tion  for  that  loss  by  doing  the  work  itself.  Ferguson 
discovered  man}'1  things  in  astronomy  which  had  long  been 
known.  The  better  for  him. 

History  must  be  this,  or  it  is  nothing.  Every  law 
which  the  state  enacts  indicates  a  fact  in  human  nature; 
that  is  all.  We  must  in  our  own  nature  see  the  necessary 
reason  of  every  fact,  —  see  how  it  could  and  must  be. 
So  vStand  before  every  public,  every  private  work;  before 
an  oration  of  Burke,  before  a  victory  of  Napoleon,  before 
a  martyrdom  of  Sir  Thomas  More,  of  Sidney,  of  Marma- 
duke  Robinson,  before  a  French  Rei&n  of  Terror,  and  a 
Salem  hanging  of  witches,  before  a  fanatic  Revival,  and 
the  Animal  Magnetism  in  Paris,  or  in  Providence.  We  as 
sume  that  we  under  like  influence  should  be  alike  affected, 
and  siiQuld  achieve  the  like;  and  we  aim  to  master 


68  HISTORY 

intellectually  the  steps,  and  reach  the  same  height  or  the 
same  degradation  that  our  fellow,  our  proxy  has  done. 

All  inquiry  into  antiquity,  —  all  curiosity  respecting  the 
pyramids,  the  excavated  cities,  Stonehenge,  the  Ohio 
Circles,  Mexico,  Memphis,  is  the  desire  to  do  away  this 
wild,  savage  and  preposterous  There  or  Then,  and  intro 
duce  in  its  place  the  Here  and  the  Now.  It  is  to  banish 
the  Not  me,  and  supply  the  Me.  It  is  to  abolish  difference, 
and  restore  unity.  Belzoni  digs  and  measures  in  the 
mummy-pits  and  pyramids  of  Thebes,  until  he  can  see 
the  end  of  the  difference  between  the  monstrous  work 
and  himself.  When  he  has  satisfied  himself,  in  general 
and  in  detail,  that  it  was  made  by  such  a  person  as  him 
self,  so  armed  and  so  motived,  and  to  ends  to  which  he 
himself  in  given  circumstances  should  also  have  worked, 
the  problem  is  then  solved;  his  thought  lives  along  the 
whole  line  of  temples  and  sphinxes  and  catacombs,  passes 
through  them  all  like  a  creative  soul,  with  satisfaction, 
and  they  live  again  to  the  mind,  or  are  now. 

A  Gothic  cathedral  affirms  that  it  was  done  by  us,  and 
not  done  by  us.  Surely  it  was  by  man,  but  we  find 
it  not  in  our  man.  But  we  apply  ourselves  to  the  history 
of  its  production.  We  put  ourselves  into  the  place  and 
historical  state  of  the  builder.  We  remember  the  forest- 
dwellers,  the  first  temples,  the  adherence  to  the  first 
type,  and  the  decoration  of  it  as  the  wealth  of  the  nation  in 
creased;  the  value  which 'is  given  to  wood  by  carving  led 
to  the  carving  over  the  whole  mountain  of  stone  of  a 
cathedral.  WThen  we  have  gone  through  this  process,  and 
added  thereto  the  Catholic  Church,  its^cross,  its  music,  its 
processions,  its  Saints'  days  and /rniagS-worshij^)  we  have, 
as  it  were,  been  the  man  that  inade  the  minster;  we 
have  seen  how  it  could  and  must  be.  We  have  the  suffi 
cient  reason. 

The  difference  between  men  is  in  their  principle  of 
association.  Some  men  classify  objects  by  color  and 
size  and  other  accidents  of  appearance;  others  by  in 
trinsic  likeness,  or  by  the  relation  of  cause  and  effect.  The 
progress  of  the  intellect  consists  in  the  clearer  vision  of 


HISTORY  69 

causes,  which  over-looks  surface-differences.  To  the. poet, 
to  the  philosopher,  to  the  saint,  all  things  are  friendly  and 
sacred,  all  events  profitable,  all  days  holy,  all  men  divine. 
For  the  eye  is  fastened  on  the  life,  and  slights  the  circum 
stance.  Every  chemical  substance,  every  plant,  every  an 
imal  in  its  growth,  teaches  the  unity  of  cause,  the  variety  of 
appearance. 

Why,  being  as  we  are  surrounded  by  this  all-creating 
nature,  soft  and  fluid  as  a  cloud  or  the  air,  should  we  be 
such  hard  pedants,  and  magnify  a  few  forms?  Why 
should  we  make  account  of  time,  or  of  magnitude,  or  of 
form?  The  soul  knows  them  not,  and  genius,  obeying 
its  law,  (knows  how  to  play  with  them  as  a  young  child 
plays  with  greybeards  and  in  churches.  Genius  studies 
the  casual  thought,  and  far  back  in  the  womb  of  things 
sees  the  rays  parting  from  one  orb,  that  diverge  ere  they 
fall  by  infinite  diameters.  Genius  watches  the  monad 
through  all  his  masks  as  he  performs  the  metempsychosis 
of  nature.  Genius  detects  through  the  fly,  through  the 
caterpillar,  through  the  grub,  through  the  egg,  the  constant 
type  of  the  individual;  through  countless  individuals  the 
fixed  species;  through  many  species  the  genus;  through 
all  genera  the  steadfast  type;  through  all  the  kingdoms 
of  organized  life  the  eternal  unity.  Nature  is  a  mutable 
cloud,  which  is  always  and  never  the  same.  She  casts 
the  same  thought  into  troops  of  forms,  as  a  poet  makes 
twenty  fables  with  one  moral.  Beautifully  shines  a  spirit 
through  the  bruteness  and  toughness  of  matter.  Alone 
omnipotent,  it  converts  all  things  to  its  own  end.  The 
adamant  streams  into  softest  but  precise  form  before  it, 
but,  whilst  I  look  at  it,  its  outline  and  texture  are  changed 
altogether.  Nothing  is  so  fleeting  as  form.  Yet  never 
does  it  quite  deny  itself.  In  man  we  still  trace  the  rudi 
ments  or  hints  of  all  that  we  esteem  badges  of  servitude 
in  the  lower  races,  yet  in  him  they  enhance  his  nobleness 
and  grace;  as  lo.  in  ^Eschylus,  transformed  to  a  cow, 
offends  the  imagination,  but  how  changed  when  as  Isis 
in  Egypt  she  meets  Jove,  a  beautiful  woman,  with  nothing 
of  the  metamorphosis  left  but  the  lunar  horns  as  the 


70  HISTORY 

splendid  ornament  of  her  brows! 

The  identity  of  history  is  equally  intrinsic,  the  diversity 
equally  obvious.  There  is  at  the  surface  infinite  variety 
of  things;  at  the  center  there  is  simplicity  and  unity  of 
cause.  How  many  are  the  acts  of  one  man  in  which  we 
recognize  the  same  character!  See  the  variety  of  the 
sources  of  our  information  in  respect  to  the  Greek 
genius.  Thus  at  first  we  have  the  civil  history  of  that 
people,  as  Herodotus,  Thucydides,  Xenophon,  Plutarch 
have  given  it  —  a  very  sufficient  account  of  what  manner 
of  persons  they  were,  and  wiiat  they  did.  Then  we  have 
the  same  soul  expressed  for  us  again  in  their  literature; 
in  poems,  drama,  and  philosophy:  a  very  complete  form. 
Then  we  have  it  once  more  in  their  architecture, — the 
purest  sensuous  beauty,  —  the  perfect  medium  never 
overstepping  the  limit  of  charming  propriety  and  grace. 
Then  we  have  it  once  more  in  sculpture,  —  "the  tongue  on 
the  balance  of  expression,"  those  forms  in  every  action, 
at  every  age  of  life,  ranging  through  all  the  scale  of  con 
dition,  from  god  to  beast,  and  never  transgressing  the 
ideal  serenity,  but  in  convulsive  exertion  the  liege  of  order 
and  of  law.  Thus,  of  the  genius  of  one  remarkable  people, 
we  have  a  fourfold  representation,  —  the  most  various 
expression  of  one  moral  thing:  and  to  the  senses  what 
more  unlike  .than  an  ode  of  Pindar,  a  marble  Centaur, 
the  Peristyle  of  the  Parthenon,  and  the  last  actions  of 
Phocion?  Yet  do  these  varied  external  expressions  pro 
ceed  from  one  national  mind. 

Every  one  must  have  observed  faces  and  forms  which, 
without  any  resembling  feature,  make  a  like  impression 
on  the  beholder.  A  particular  picture  or  copy  of  verses, 
if  it  do  not  awaken  the  same  train  of  images,  will  yet 
superinduce  the  same  sentiment  as  some  wild  mountain 
walk,  although  the  resemblance  is  nowise  obvious  to  the 
senses,  but  is  occult  and  out  of  the  reach  of  the  under 
standing.  Nature  is  an  endless  combination  and  repetition 
of  a  very  few  laws.  She  hums  the  old  well-known  air 
through  innumerable  variations. 

Nature  is  full  of  a  sublime  family-likeness  throughout 


HISTORY  71 

her  works.  She  delights  in  startling  us  with  resemblances 
in  the  most  unexpected  quarters.  I  have  seen  the  head 
of  an  old  sachem  of  the  forest,  which  at  once  reminded 
the  eye  of  a  bald  mountain  summit,  and  the  furrows  of 
the  brow  suggested  the  strata  of  the  rock.  There  are 
men  whose  manners  have  the  same  essential  splendor 
as  the  simple  and  awful  sculpture  on  the  friezes  of  the 
Parthenon,  and  the  remains  of  the  earliest  Greek  art. 
And  there  are  compositions  of  the  same  strain  to  be  found 
in  the  books  of  all  ages.  What  is  Guido's  Rospigliosi 
Aurora  but  a  morning  thought,  as  the  horses  in  it  are 
only  a  morning  cloud.  If  any  one  will  but  take  pains  to 
observe  the  variety  of  actions  to  which  he  is  equally  in 
clined  in  certain  modes  of  mind,  and  those  to  which  he  is 
averse,  he  will  see  how  deep  is  the  chain  of  affinity. 

A  painter  told  me  that  nobody  could  draw  a  tree  with 
out  in  some  sort  becoming  a  tree;  or  draw  a  child  by 
studying  the  outlines  of  its  form  merely,  —  but,  by  watch 
ing  for  a  time  his  motions  and  plays,  the  painter  enters 
his  nature,  and  can  then  draw  him  at  will  in  every  atti 
tude.  So  Roos  "entered  into  the  inmost  nature  of  a 
sheep."  I  knew  a  draughtsman  employed  in  a  public 
survey,  who  found  that  he  could  not  sketch  the  rocks 
until  their  geological  structure  was  first  explained  to  him. 

What  is  to  be  inferred  from  these  facts  but  this;  that 
in  a  certain  state  of  thought  is  the  common  origin  of 
very  diverse  works?  It  is  the  spirit  and  not  the  fact  that 
is  identical.  By  descending  far  down  into  the  depths  of 
the  soul,  and  not  primarily  by  a  painful  acquisition  of 
many  manual  skills,  the  artist  attains  the  power  of  awaken 
ing  other  souls  to  a  given  activity. 

It  has  been  said  that  "common  souls  pay  with  what 
they  do;  nobler  souls  with  that  which  they  are."  And 
why?  Because  a  soul,  living  from  a  great  depth  of  being, 
awakens  in  us  by  its  actions  and  words,  by  its  very  looks 
and  manners,  the  same  power  and  beauty  that  a  gallery 
of  sculpture,  or  of  pictures,  are  wont  to  animate. 

Civil  history,  natural  history,  the  history  of  art,  a.nd 
the  history  of  literature,  —  all  must  be  explained  from 


72  HISTORY 

individual  history,  or  must  remain  words.  There  is 
nothing  but  is  related  to  us,  nothing  that  does  not  interest 
us  —  kingdom,  college,  tree,  horse,  or  iron  shoe,  the  roots 
of  all  things  are  in  man.  It  is  in  the  soul  that  archi 
tecture  exists.  Santa  Croce  and  the  Dome  of  St.  Peter's 
are  lame  copies  after  a  divine  model.  Strasburg  Cathe 
dral  is  a  material  counterpart  of  the  soul  of  Erwin  of 
Steinbach.  The  true  poem  is  the  poet's  mind;  the  true 
ship  is  the  ship-builder.  In  the  man,  could  we  lay  him 
open,  we  should  see  the  suficient  reason  for  the  last  flourish 
and  tendril  of  his  work,  as  every  spine  and  tint  in  the 
sea-shell  pre-exist  in  the  secreting  organs  of  the  fish.  The 
whole  of  heraldry  and  of  chivalry  is  in  courtesy.  A  man 
of  fine  manners  shall  pronounce  your  name  with  all  the 
ornament  that  titles  of  nobility  could  ever  add. 

The  trivial  experience  of  every  day  is  always  verifying 
some  old  prediction  to  us,  and  converting  into  things  for 
us  also  the  words  and  signs  which  we  had  heard  and  seen 
without  heed.  Let  me  add  a  few  examples,  such  as  fall 
within  the  scope  of  every  man's  observation,  of  trivial 
facts  which  go  to  illustrate  great  and  conspicuous  facts. 

A  lady,  with  whom  I  \vas  riding  in  the  forest,  said  to 
me,  that  the  woods  always  seemed  to  her  to  wait,  as  if 
the  genii  who  inhabit  them  suspended  their  deeds  until 
the  wayfarer  has  passed  onward.  This  is  precisely  the 
thought  which  poetry  has  celebrated  in  the  dance  of  the 
fairies,  which  breaks  off  on  the  approach  of  human  feet. 
The  man  who  has  seen  the  rising  moon  break  out  of  the 
clouds  at  midnight,  has  been  present  like  an  archangel 
at  the  creation  of  light  and  of  the  world.  I  remember 
that  being  abroad  one  summer  day,  my  companion"' 
pointed  out  to  me  a  broad  cloud,  which  might  extend  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  parallel  to  the  horizon,  quite  accurately 
in  the  form  of  a  cherub  as  painted  over  churches,  —  a 
round  block  in  the  centre,  which  it  was  easy  to  animate 
with  eyes  and  mouth,  supported  on  either  side  by  wide- 
stretched  symmetrical  wings.  What  appears  once  in  the 
atmosphere  may  appear  often,  and  it  was  undoubtedly 
the  archetype  of  that  .familiar  ornament,  I  have  seen. 


HISTORY  73 

in  the  sky  a  chain  of  summer  lightning  which  at  once 
revealed  to  me  that  the  Greeks  drew  from  nature  when 
they  painted  the  thunderbolt  in  the  hand  of  Jove,  I 
have  seen  a  snow-drift  along  the  sides  of  the  stone  wall 
which  obviously  gave  the  idea  of  the  common  architectural 
scroll  to  abut  a  tower. 

By  simply  throwing  ourselves  into  new  circumstances  we 
do  continually  invent  anew  the  orders  and  the  ornaments 
of  architecture,  as  we  see  how  each  people  merely  decor 
ated  its  primitive  abodes.  The  Doric  temple  still  presents 
the  semblance  of  the  wooden  cabin  in  which  the  Dorian 
dwelt.  The  Chinese  pagoda  is  plainly  a  Tartar  tent. 
The  Indian  and  Egyptian  temples  still  betray  the  mounds 
and  subterranean  houses  of  their  forefathers.  "The 
custom  of  making  houses  and  tombs  in  the  living  rock," 
(says  Heeren,  in  his  Researches  on  the  Ethiopians), 
"determined  very  naturally  the  principal  character  of  the. 
Nubian  Egyptian  architecture  to  the  colossal  form  which 
it  assumed.  In  these  caverns  already  prepared  by  nature, 
the  eye  was  accustomed  to  dwell  on  huge  shapes  and 
masses,  so  that  when  art  came  to  the  assistance  of  nature/ 
it  could  not  move  on  a  small  scale  without  degrading 
itself.  What  would  statues  of  the  usual  size,  or  neat 
porches  and  wings  have  been,  associated  with  those  gigantic 
halls  before  which  only  Colossi  could  sit  as  watchmen,  or 
lean  on  the  pillars  of  the  interior?" 

The  Gothic  church  plainly  originated  in  a  rude  adapta 
tion  of  the  forest  trees  with  all  their  boughs  to  a  festal 
or  solemn  arcade,  as  the  bands  about  the  cleft  pillars  still  in 
dicate  the  green  withes  that  tied  them.  No  one  can  w^J^k 
in  a  road  cut  through  pine  woods,  without  being  struck 
with  the  architectural  appearance  of  the  grove,  especially 
in  winter,  when  the  bareness  of  all  other  trees  shows  the 
low  arch  of  the  Saxons.  In  the  woods  in  a  winter  after 
noon  one  will  see  as  readily  the  origin  of  the  stained 
glass  window  with  which  the  Gothic  cathedrals  are  adorned, 
in  the  colors  of  the  western  sky  seen  through  the  bare 
and  crossing  branches  of  the  forest.  Nor  can  any  lover 
of  nature  enter  Jie  old  piles  of  Oxford  and  the  English 


74  HISTORY 

cathedrals  without  feeling  that  the  forest  overpowered 
the  mind  of  the  builder,  and  that  his  chisel,  his  saw,  and 
plane  still  reproduced  its  ferns,  its  spikes  of  flowers,  its 
locust,  its  pine,  its  oak,  its  fir,  its  spruce. 

The  Gothic  cathedral  is  a  blossoming  in  stone  subdued 
by  the  insatiable  demand  of  harmony  in  man.  The  moun 
tain  of  granite  blooms  into  an  eternal  flower  with  the 
lightness  and  delicate  finish  as  well  as  the  aerial  proportions 
and  perspective  of  vegetable  beauty. 

In  like  manner  all  public  facts  are  to  be  individualized, 
all  private  facts  are  to  be  generalized.  Then  at  once 
History  becomes  fluid  and  true,  and  Biography  deep  and 
sublime.  As  the  Persian  imitated  in  the  slender  shafts 
and  capitals  of  his  architecture  the  stem  and  flower  of 
the  lotus  and  palm,  so  the  Persian  court  in  its  magnificent 
era  never  gave  over  the  Nomadism  of  its  barbarous  tribes, 
but  traveled  from  Ecbatana,  where  the  spring  was  spent, 
to  Susa  in  summer,  and  to  Babylon  for  the  winter. 

In  the  early  history  of  Asia  and  Africa,  Nomadism  and 
Agriculture  are  the  two  antagonistic  facts.  The  geography 
of  Asia  and  of  Africa  necessitated  a  nomadic  life.  But 
the  nomads  were  the  terror  of  all  those  whom  the  soil  or 
the  advantages  of  a  market  had  induced  to  build  towns. 
Agriculture  therefore  was  a  religious  injunction  because 
of  the  perils  of  the  state  from  nomadism.  And  in  these 
late  and  civil  countries  of  England  and  America,  the 
contest  of  these  propensities  still  fights  out  the  old  battle 
in  each  individual.  We  are  all  rovers  and  all  fixtures  by 
turns,  and  pretty  rapid  turns.  The  nomads  of  Africa  are 
constrained  to  wander  by  the  attacks  of  the  gad-fly,  which 
drives  the  cattle  mad,  and  so  compels  the  tribe  to  emigrate 
in  the  rainy  season  and  drive  off  the  cattle  to  the  higher 
sandy  regions.  The  nomads  of  Asia  follow  the  pasturage 
from  month  to  month.  In  America  and  Europe  the 
nomadism  is  of  trade  and  curiosity.  A  progress  certainly 
from  the  gad-fly  of  Astaboras  to  the  Angelo  and  Italomania 
of  Boston  Bay.  The  difference  between  men  in  this 
respect  is  the  faculty  of  rapid  domestication,  the  power 
to  find  his  chair  and  bed  everywhere,  which  one  man  has, 


HISTORY  75 

and  another  has  not.  Some  men  have  so  much  of  the 
Indian  left,  have  constitutionally  such  habits  of  accom 
modation,  that  at  sea,  or  in  the  forest,  or  in  the  snow, 
they  sleep  as  warm,  and  dine  with  as  good  appetite,  and 
associate  as  happily,  as  in  their  own  house.  And  to  push 
this  old  fact  still  one  degree  nearer,  we  may  find  it  a 
representative  of  a  permanent  fact  in  human  nature.  The 
intellectual  nomadism  is  the  faculty  of  objectiveness,  or 
of  eyes  which  everywhere  feed  themselves.  Who  hath 
such  eyes,  everywhere  falls  into  easy  relations  with  his 
fellow-men.  Every  man,  every  thing  is  a  prize,  a  study, 
a  property  to  him,  and  this  love  smooths  his  brow,  joins 
him  to  men,  and  makes  him  beautiful  and  beloved  in 
their  sight.  His  house  is  a  wagon;  he  roams  through  all 
latitudes  as  easily  as  a  Calmuc. 

Every  thing  the  individual  sees  without  him,  corresponds 
to  his  states  of  mind,  and  every  thing  is  in  turn  intelligible 
to  him,  as  his  onward  thinking  leads  him  into  the  truth  to 
which  that  fact  or  series  belongs. 

The  primeval  world,  the  Fore-World,  as  the  Germans 
say,  —  I  can  dive  to  it  in  myself  as  well  as  grope  for  it 
with  researching  fingers  in  catacombs,  libraries,  and  the 
broken  reliefs  and  torsos  of  ruined  villas. 

What  is  the  foundation  of  that  interest  all  men  feel  in 
Greek  history,  letters,  art,  and  poetry,  in  all  its  periods, 
from  the  heroic  or  Homeric  age,  down  to  the  domestic 
life  of  the  Athenians  and  Spartans,  four  or  five  centuries 
later?  This  period  draws  us  because  we  are  Greeks.  It 
is  a  state  through  which  every  man  in  some  sort  passes. 
The  Grecian  state  is  the  era  of  the  bodily  nature,  the 
perfection  of  the  senses,  —  of  the  spiritual  nature  unfolded 
in  strict  unity  with  the  body.  In  it  existed  those  human 
forms  which  supplied  the  sculptor  with  his  models  of 
Hercules,  Phoebus,  and  Jove;  not  like  the  forms  abound 
ing  in  the  streets  of  modern  cities,  wherein  the  face  is  a 
confused  blur  of  features,  but  composed  of  incorrupt, 
sharply  defined  and  symmetrical  features,  whose  eye- 
sockets  are  so  formed  that  it  would  be  impossible  for 
such  eyes  to  squint,  and  take  furtive  glances  on  this  side 


76  HISTORY 

and  on  that,  but  they  must  turn  the  whole  head. 

The  manners  of  that  period  are  plain  and  fierce.  The 
reverence  exhibited  is  for  personal  qualities,  courage, 
address,  self-command,  justice,  strength,  swiftness,  a  loud 
voice,  a  broad  chest.  Luxury  is  not  known,  nor  elegance. 
A  sparse  population  and  want  make  every  man  his  own 
valet,  cook,  butcher,  and  soldier;  and  the  habit  of 
supplying  his  own  needs  educates  the  body  to  wonderful 
performances.  Such  are  the  Agamemnon  and  Diomed  of 
Homer,  and  not  far  different  is  the  picture  Xenophon 
gives  of  himself  and  his  compatriots  in  the  Retreat  of  the 
Ten  Thousand.  "After  the  army  had  crossed  the  river 
Teleboas  in  Armenia,  there  fell  much  snow,  and  the 
troops  lay  miserably  on  the  ground,  covered  with  it.  But 
Xenophon  arose  naked,  and  taking  an  axe,  began  to  split 
Wood;  whereupon  others  arose  and  did  the  like."  Through 
out  his  army  seemed  to  be  a  boundless  liberty  of  speech. 
They  quarrel  for  plunder,  they  wrangle  with  the  generals 
on  each  new  order,  and  Xenophon  is  as  sharp-tongued  as 
any,  and  sharper-tongued  than  most,  and  so  gives  as  good 
as  he  gets.  Who  does  not  see  that  this  is  a  gang  of 
great  boys,  with  such  a  code  of  honor  and  such  lax  disci 
pline  as  great  boys  have? 

The  costly  charm  of  the  ancient  tragedy,  and  indeed 
of  all  the  old  literature,  is,  that  the  persons  speak  simply 
—  speak  as  persons  who  have  great  good  sense  without 
knowing  it,  before  yet  the  reflective  habit  has  become  the 
-  predominant  habit  of  the  mind.  Our  admiration  of  the 
'"">  .antique  is  not  admiration  of  the  old,  but  of  the  natural. 
The  Greeks  are  not  reflective  but  perfect  in  their  senses, 
perfect  in  their  health,  with  the  finest  physical  organiza 
tion  in  the  world.  Adults  acted  with  the  simplicity  and 
grace  of  boys.  They  made  vases,  tragedies,  and  statues 
such  as  healthy  senses  should  —  that  is,  in  good  taste. 
Such  things  have  continued  to  be  made  in  all  ages,  and 
are  now,  wherever  a  healthy  physique  exists;  but,  as  a 
class,  from  their  superior  organization,  they  have  surpassed 
all.  They  combine  the  energy  of  manhood  with  the  en 
gaging  unconsciousness  of  childhood.  Our  reverence  for 


HISTORY  77 

them  is  our  reverence  for  childhood.  Nobody  can  reflect 
upon  an  unconscious  act  with  regret  or  contempt.  Bard 
or  hero  cannot  look  down  on  the  word  or  gesture  of  a 
child.  It  is  as  great  as  they.  The  attraction  of  these 
manners  is,  that  they  belong  to  man,  and  are  known  to 
every  man  in  virtue  of  his  being  once  a  child;  beside  that 
always  there  are  individuals  who  retain  these  character 
istics.  A  person  of  childlike  genius  and  inborn  energy  is 
still  a  Greek,  and  revives  our  love  of  the  muse  of  Hellas. 
A  great  boy,  a  great  girl,  with  good  sense,  is  a  Greek. 
Beautiful  is  the  love  of  nature  in  the  Philoctetes.  But 
in  reading  those  fine  apostrophes  to  sleep,  to  the  stars, 
rocks,  mountains,  and  waves,  I  feel  time  passing  away  as 
an  ebbing  sea.  I  feel  the  eternity  of  man,  the  identity  of 
his  thought.  The  Greek  had,  it  seems,  the  same  fellow 
beings  as  I.  The  sun  and  moon,  water  and  fire,  met  his 
heart  precisely  as  they  meet  mine.  Then  the  vaunted 
distinction  between  Greek  and  English,  between  Classic 
and  Romantic  schools,  seems  superficial  and  pedantic. 
When  a  thought  of  Plato  becomes  a  thought  to  me, — 
when  a  truth  that  fired  the  soul  of  Pindar  fires  mine,  time 
is  no  more.  When  I  feel  that  we  two  meet  in  a  percep 
tion,  that  our  two  souls  are  tinged  with  the  same  hue,  and 
do,  as  it  were,  run  into  one,  why  should  I  measure  degrees 
of  latitude,  why  should  I  count  Egyptian  years? 

The  student  interprets  the  age  of  chivalry  by  his  own 
age  of  chivalry,  and  the  days  of  maritime  adventure  and 
circumnavigation  by  quite  parallel  miniature  experiences 
of  his  own.  To  the  sacred  history  of  the  world  he  has 
the  same  key.  When  the  voice  of  a  prophet  out  of  the 
deeps  of  antiquity  merely  echoes  to  him  a  sentiment  of 
his  own  infancy,  a  prayer  of  his  own  youth,  he  then  pierces 
to  the  truth  through  all  the  confusion  of  tradition  and 
the  caricature  of  institutions. 

Rare,  extravagant  spirits  come  by  us  at  intervals,  who 
disclose  to  us  new  facts  in  nature.  I  see  that  men  of 
God  have  always,  from  time  to  time,  walked  among  men, 
and  made  their  commission  felt  in  the  heart  and  soul  of 
the  commonest  hearer.  Hence,  evidently,  the  tripod,  the 


78  HISTORY 

priest,  the  priestess  inspired  by  the  divine  afflatus. 

Jesus  astonishes  and  overpowers  sensual  people.  They 
cannot  unite  him  to  history,  or  reconcile  him  with  them 
selves.  As  they  come  to  revere  their  intuitions  and  aspire 
to  live  holily,  their  own  piety  explains  every  fact,  every 
word. 

How  easily  these  old  worships  of  Moses,  of  Zoroaster, 
of  Menu,  of  Socrates,  domesticate  themselves  in  the 
mind!  I  cannot  find  any  antiquity  in  them.  They  are 
mine  as  much  as  theirs. 

Then  I  have  seen  the  first  monks  and  anchorets  without 
crossing  seas  or  centuries.  More  than  once  some  individ 
ual  has  appeared  to  me  with  such  negligence  of  labor  and 
such  commanding  contemplation,  a  haughty  beneficiary, 
begging  in  the  name  of  God,  as  made  good  to  the  nine 
teenth  century  Simeon  the  Stylite,  the  Thebais,  and  the 
first  Capuchins. 

The  priestcraft  of  the  East  and  West,  of  the  Magian, 
Brahmin,  Druid  and  Inca,  is  expounded  in  the  individual's 
private  life.  The  cramping  influence  of  a  hard  formalist 
on  a  young  child  in  repressing  his  spirits  and  courage, 
paralyzing  the  understanding,  and  that  without  producing 
indignation,  but  only  fear  and  obedience,  and  even  much 
sympathy  with  the  tyranny,  —  is  a  familiar  fact  explained 
to  the  child  when  he  becomes  a  man,  only  by  seeing  that 
the  oppressor  of  his  youth  is  himself  a  child  tyrannized 
over  by  those  names  and  words  and  forms,  of  whose  influ 
ence  he  was  merely  the  organ  to  the  youth.  The  fact 
teaches  him  how  Belus  was  worshipped,  and  how  the 
pyramids  were  built,  better  than  the  discovery  by  Cham- 
pollion  of  the  names  of  all  the  workmen  and  the  cost  of 
every  tile.  He  finds  Assyria  and  the  Mounds  of  Cholula 
at  his  door,  and  himself  has  laid  the  courses. 

Again,  in  that  protest  which  each  considerate  person 
makes  against  the  superstition  of  his  times,  he  reacts  step 
for  step  the  part  of  old  reformers,  and  in  the  search  after 
truth  finds  like  them  new  perils  to  virtue.  He  learns 
again  what  moral  vigor  is  needed  to  supply  the  girdle 
of  a  superstition.  A  great  licentiousness  treads  on  the 


HISTORY  79 

heels  of  a  reformation.  How  many  times  in  the  history 
of  the  world  has  the  Luther  of  the  day  had  to  lament 
the  decay  of  piety  in  his  own  household!  "Doctor,"  said 
his  wife  to  Martin  Luther  one  day,  "how  is  it  that  whilst 
subject  to  papacy  we  prayed  so  often  and  with  such  fer 
vour,  whilst  now  we  pray  with  the  utmost  coldness  and 
very  seldom?" 

The  advancing  man  discovers  how  deep  a  property  he 
hath  in  all  literature,  —  in  all  fable  as  well  as  in  all  history. 
He  finds  that  the  poet  was  no  odd  fellow  who  described 
strange  and  impossible  situations,  but  that  universal  man 
wrote  by  his  pen  a  confession  true  for  one  and  true  for 
all.  His  own  secret  biography  he  finds  in  lines  wonder 
fully  intelligible  to  him,  yet  dotted  down  before  he  was 
born.  One  after  another  he  comes  up  in  his  private  ad 
ventures  with  every  fable  of  ^Esop,  of  Homer,  of  Hafiz, 
of  Ariosto,  of  Chaucer,  of  Scott,  and  verifies  them  with 
his  own  head  and  hands. 

The  beautiful  fables  of  the  Greeks,  being  proper  crea 
tions  of  the  Imagination  and  not  of  the  Fancy,  are  uni 
versal  verities.  What  a  range  of  meanings  and  what  per 
petual  pertinence  has  the  story  of  Prometheus!  Beside 
its  primary  value  as  the  first  chapter  of  the  history  of 
Europe  (the  mythology  thinly  veiling  authentic  facts,  the 
invention  of  the  mechanic  arts,  and  the  migration  of 
colonies),  it  gives  the  history  of  religion  with  some  close 
ness  to  the  faith  of  later  ages.  Prometheus  is  the  Jesus 
of  the  old  mythology.  He  is  the  friend  of  man;  stands 
between  the  unjust  "justice"  of  the  Eternal  Father,  and 
the  race  of  mortals;  and  readily  suffers  all  things  on  their 
account.  But  where  it  departs  from  the  Calvinistic 
Christianity,  and  exhibits  him  as  the  defier  of  Jove,  it 
represents  a  state  of  mind  which  readily  appears  wherever 
the  doctrine  of  Theism  is  taught  in  a  crude,  objective 
form,  and  which  seems  the  self-defence  of  man  against 
this  untruth,  namely,  a  discontent  with  the  believed  fact 
that  a  God  exists,  and  a  feeling  that  the  obligation  of 
reverence  is  onerous.  It  would  steal,  if  it  could,  the  fire 
of  the  Creator,  and  live  apart  from  him,  and  independent 


80  HISTORY 

of  him.  The  Prometheus  Vinctus  is  the  romance  of 
scepticism.  Not  less  true  to  all  time  are  all  the  details 
of  that  stately  apologue.  Apollo  kept  the  flocks  of  Admetus, 
said  the  poets.  Every  man  is  a  divinity  in  disguise,  a 
god  playing  the  fool.  It  seems  as  if  heaven  had  sent  its 
insane  angels  into  our  world  as  to  an  asylum,  and  here 
they  will  break  out  into  their  native  music  and  utter  at 
intervals  the  words  they  have  heard  in  heaven;  then  the 
mad  fit  returns,  and  they  mope  and  wallow  like  dogs. 
When  the  gods  come  among  them,  they  are  not  known. 
Jesus  was  not;  Socrates  and  Shakespeare  were  not. 
Antaeus  was  suffocated  by  the  gripe  of  Hercules,  but  every 
time  he  touched  his  mother  earth,  his  strength  was  re 
newed.  Man  is  the  broken  giant,  and  in  all  his  weakness, 
both  his  body  and  his  mind  are  invigorated  by  habits  of 
conversation  with  nature.  The  power  of  music,  the  power 
of  poetry  to  unfix,  and,  as  it  were,  clap  wings  to  all  solid 
nature,  interprets  the  riddle  of  Orpheus,  which  was  to  his 
childhood  an  idle  tale.  The  philosophical  perception  of 
identity  through  endless  mutations  of  form  makes  him 
know  the  Proteus.  What  else  am  I  who  laughed  or  wept 
yesterday,  who  slept  last  night  like  a  corpse,  and  this 
morning  stood  and  ran?  And  what  see  I  on  any  side 
but  the  transmigrations  of  Proteus?  I  can  symbolize  my 
thought  by  using  the  name  of  any  creature,  of  any  fact, 
because  every  creature  is  man  agent  or  patient.  Tantalus 
is  but  a  name  for  you  and  me.  Tantalus  means  the  im 
possibility  of  drinking  the  waters  of  thought  which  are 
always  gleaming  and  waving  within  sight  of  the  soul.  The 
transmigration  of  souls:  that  too  is  no  fable.  I  would 
it  were;  but  men  and  women  are  only  half  human.  Every 
animal  of  the  barn-yard,  the  field  and  the  forest,  of  the 
earth  and  of  ike  waters  that  are  under  the  earth,  has 
Contrived  to  get  a  footing,  and  to  leave  the  print  of  its 
features  and  form  in  some  one  or  other  of  these  upright, 
heaven-facing  speakers.  Ah,  brother,  hold  fast  to 
the  man  and  awe  the  beast;  stop  the  ebb  of  thy  soul — 
ebbing  downward  into  the  forms  into  whose  habits  thou 
hast  now  for  many  years  slid.  As  near  and -proper -to  us 


HISTORY 

»> 

is  also  that  old  fable  of  the  Sphinx,  who  was  said 
in  the  roadside  and  put  riddles  to  every  passenger, 
the  man  could  not  answer,  she  swallowed  him  alive.  ^ 
he  could  solve  the  riddle,  the  Sphinx  was  slain.  What 
is  our  life  but  an  endless  flight  of  winged  facts  or  events? 
In  splendid  variety  these  changes  come,  all  putting  ques 
tions  to  the  human  spirit.  Those  men  who  cannot  answer 
by  a  superior  wisdom  these  facts  or  questions  of  time, 
serve  them.  Facts  encumber  them,  tyrannize  over  them, 
and  make  the  men  of  routine  the  men  of  sense,  in  whom 
a  literal  obedience  to  facts  has  extinguished  every  spark 
of  that  light  by  which  man  is  truly  man.  But  if  the  man 
is  true  to  his  better  instincts  or  sentiments,  and  refuses  the 
dominion  of  facts,  as  one  that  comes  of  a  higher  race, 
remains  fast  by  the  soul  and  sees  the  principle,  then  the 
facts  fall  aptly  and  supple  into  their  places;  they  know 
their  master,  and  the  meanest  of  them  glorifies  him. 

See  in  Goethe's  Helena  the  same  desire  that  every  word 
should  be  a  thing.  These  figures,  he  would  say,  these 
Chirons,  Griffins,  Phorkyas,  Helen,  and  Leda,  are  somewhat, 
and  do  exert  a  specific  influence  on  the  mind.  So  far  then 
are  they  eternal  entities,  as  real  to-day  as  in  the  first  Olym 
piad.  Much  revolving  them,  he  writes  out  freely  his 
humor,  and  gives  them  body  to  his  own  imagination.  And 
although  that  poem  be  as  vague  and  fantastic  as  a  dream, 
yet  it  is  much  more  attractive  than  the  more  regular  dram 
atic  pieces  of  the  same  author,  for  the  reason  that  it  oper 
ates  a  wonderful  relief  to  the  mind  from  the  routine  of 
customary  images, — awakens  the  reader's  invention  and 
fancy  by  the  wild  freedom  of  the  design,  and  by  the  un 
ceasing  succession  of  brisk  shocks  of  surprise. 

The  universal  nature,  too  strong  for  the  petty  nature 
of  the  bard,  sits  on  his  neck  and  writes  through  his  hand; 
so  that  when  he  seems  to  vent  a  mere  caprice  and  wild  ro 
mance,  the  issue  is  an  exact  allegory.  Hence  Plato  said 
that  "poets  utter  great  and  wise  things  which  they  do  not 
themselves  understand."  All  the  fictions  of  the  Middle 
Age  explain  themselves  as  a  masked  or  frolic  expresion  of 
that  which,  in  grave  earnest,  the  mind  of  that  period 


>  HISTORY 

toiled  to  achieve.  Magic,  and  all  that  is  ascribed  to  it,  is 
manifestly  a  deep  presentiment  of  the  powers  of  science. 
The  shoes  of  swiftness,  the  sword  of  sharpness,  the  power 
of  subduing  the  elements,  of  using  the  secret  virtues  of 
minerals,  of  understanding  the  voices  of  birds,  are  the 
obscure  efforts  of  the  mind  in  a  right  direction.  The  pre 
ternatural  prowess  of  the  hero,  the  gift  of  perpetual  youth, 
and  the  like,  are  alike  the  endeavor  of  the  human  spirit  "to 
bend  the  shows  of  things  io  the  desires  of  the  mind." 

In  Perceforest  and  Amadis  de  Gaul,  a  garland  and  a  rose 
bloom  on  the  head  of  her  who  is  faithful,  and  fade  on  the 
brow  of  the  inconstant.  In  the  story  of  the  Boy  and  the 
Mantle,  even  a  mature  reader  may  be  surprised  with  a 
glow  of  virtuous  pleasure  at  the  triumph  of  the  gentle 
Genelas;  and,  indeed,  all  the  postulates  of  elfin  annals, 
that  the  Fairies  do  not  like  to  be  named;  that  their  gifts 
are  capricious  and  not  to  be  trusted;  that  who  seeks  a  treas 
ure  must  not  speak;  and  the  like,  I  find  true  in  Concord, 
however  they  might  be  in  Cornwall  or  Bretagne. 

Is  it  otherwise  in  the  newest  romance?  I  read  the 
Bride  of  Lammermoor.  Sir  William  Ashton  is  a  mask  for 
a  vulgar  temptation,  Ravenswood  Castle,  a  fine  name  for 
proud  poverty,  and  the  foreign  mission  of  state  only  a 
Bunyan  disguise  for  honest  industry.  We  may  all  shoot 
a  wild  bull  that  would  toss  the  good  and  beautiful, 
by  fighting  down  the  unjust  and  sensual.  Lucy  Ashton  is 
another  name  for  fidelity,  which  is  always  beautiful  and 
always  liable  to  calamity  in  this  world. 

But  along  with  the  civil  and  metaphysical  history  of  man, 
another  history  goes  daily  forward — that  of  the  external 
world, — in  which  he  is  not  less  strictly  implicated.  He  is  the 
compend  of  time:  he  is  also  the  correlative  of  nature. 
The  power  of  man  consists  in  the  multitude  of  his  affinities, 
in  the  fact  that  his  life  is  intertwined  with  the  whole  chain 
of  organic  and  inorganic  being.  In  the  age  of  the  Caesars, 
out  from  the  Forum  at  Rome  proceeded  the  great  high 
ways  north,  south,  east,  west,  to  the  center  of  every  pro 
vince  of  the  empire,  making  each  market-town  of  Persia, 
Spain,  and  Britain,  pervious  to  the  soldiers  of  the  capital: 


HISTORY  83 

so  out  of  the  human  heart  go,  as  it  were,  highways  to  the 
heart  of  every  object  in  nature,  to  reduce  it  under  the  do 
minion  of  man.  A  man  is  a  bundle  of  relations,  a  knot  of 
roots,  whose  flower  and  fruitage  is  the  world.  All  his 
faculties  refer  to  natures  out  of  him.  All  his  faculties  pre 
dict  the  world  he  is  to  inhabit,  as  the  fins  of  the  fish  foreshow 
that  water  exists,  or  the  wings  of  an  eagle  in  the  egg  pre 
suppose  a  medium  like  air.  Insulate,  and  you  destoy  him. 
He  cannot  live  without  a  world.  Put  Napoleon  in  an  island- 
prison,  let  his  faculties  find  no  men  to  act  on,  no  Alps  to 
climb,  no  stake  to  play  for,  and  he  would  beat  the  air  and 
appear  stupid.  Transport  him  to  large  countries,  dense 
population,  complex  interests,  and  antagonist  power,  and 
you  shall  see  that  the  man  Napoleon,  bounded,  that  is,  by 
such  a  profile  and  outline,  is  not  the  virtual  Napoleon.  This 
is  but  Talbot's  shadow; 

"His  substance  is  not  here: 
For  what  you  see  is  but  the  smallest  part, 
And  least  proportion  of  humanity; 
But  were  the  whole  frame  here, 
It  is  of  such  a  spacious,  lofty  pitch, 
Your  roof  were  not  sufficient  to  contain  it."  —  Henry  VI. 

Columbus  needs  a  planet  to  shape  his  course  upon. 
Newton  and  Laplace  need  myriads  of  ages  and  thickstrown 
celestial  areas.  One  may  say  a  gravitating  solar  system  is 
already  prophesied  in  the  nature  of  Newton's  mind.  Not 
less  does  the  brain  of  Davy  and  Gay-Lussac  from  childhood, 
exploring  always  the  affinities  and  repulsions  of  particles, 
anticipate  the  laws  of  organization.  Does  not  the  eye  of 
the  human  embryo  predict  the  light?  the  ear  of  Handel 
predict  the  witchcraft  <jf  harmonic  sound?  Do  not 
the  constructive  fingers  of  Watt,  Fulton,  Whittemore, 
Arkwright  predict  the  fusible,  hard,  and  temperable  texture 
of  metals,  the  properties  of  stone,  water,  and  wood  ?  the  lovely 
attributes  of  the  maiden  child  predict  the  refinements 
and  decorations  of  civil  society?  Here  also  we  are  re 
minded  of  the  action  of  man  on  man.  A  mind  might  ponder 
its  thought  for  ages,  and  not  gain  so  much  self-knowledge 
as  the  passion  of  love  shall  teach  it  in  a  day.  Who  knows 


84  HISTORY 

himself  before  he  has  been  thrilled  with  indignation  at 
an  outrage,  or  has  heard  an  eloquent  tongue,  or  has  shared  the 
throb  of  thousands  in  a  national  exultation  or  alarm?  No 
man  can  antedate  his  experience,  or  guess  what  faculty  or 
feeling  a  new  object  shall  unlock,  any  more  than  he  can 
draw  to-day  the  face  of  a  person  whom  he  shall  see  to 
morrow  for  the  first  time. 

I  will  not  now  go  behind  the  general  statement  to  ex 
plore  the  reason  of  this  correspondency.  Let  it  suffice 
that  in  the  light  of  these  two  facts,  namely,  that  the  mind  is 
One,  and  that  nature  is  its  correlative,  history  is  to  be  read 
and  written. 

Thus  in  all  ways  does  the  soul  concentrate  and  reproduce 
its  treasures  for  each  pupil,  for  each  new-born  man.  He 
too  shall  pass  through  the  whole  cycle  of  experience.  He 
shall  collect  into  a  focus  the  rays  of  nature.  History  no 
longer  shall  be  a  dull  book.  It  shall  walk  incarnate  in  every 
just  and  wise  man.  You  shall  not  tell  me  by  languages  and 
titles  a  catalogue  of  the  volumes  you  have  read.  You  shall 
make  me  feel  what  periods  you  have  lived.  A  man  shall 
be  the  Temple  of  Fame.  He  shall  walk,  as  the  poets  have 
described  that  goddess,  in  a  robe  painted  all  over  with  won 
derful  events  and  experiences; — his  own  form  and  features 
by  their  exalted  intelligence  shall  be  that  variegated  vest. 
I  shall  find  in  him  the  Foreworld;  in  his  childhood  the 
Age  of  Gold;  the  Apples  of  Knowledge;  the  Argonautic 
Expedition;  the  calling  of  Abraham;  the  building  of  the 
Temple;  the  Advent  of  Christ;  Dark  Ages;  the  Revival  of 
Letters;  the  Reformation;  the  discovery  of  new  lands,  the 
opening  of  new  sciences,  and  new  regions  in  man.  He  shall 
be  the  priest  of  Pan,  and  bring  with  him  into  humble  cot 
tages  the  blessing  of  the  morning  stars  and  all  the  recorded 
benefits  of  heaven  and  earth. 

Is  there  somewhat  overweening  in  this  claim?  Then  I 
reject  all  I  have  written;  for  what  is  the  use  of  pretending 
to  know  what  we  know  not?  But  it  is  the  fault  of  our 
rhetoric  that  we  cannot  strongly  state  one  fact  without 
seeming  to  belie  some  other.  I  hold  our  actual  knowledge 
very  cheap.  Hear  the  rats  in  the  wall,  see  the  lizard  on  the 


HISTORY  85 

fence,  the  fungus  under  foot,  the  lichen  on  the  log.  What 
do  I  know  sympathetically,  morally,  of  either  of  these 
worlds  of  life?  As  long  as  the  Caucasian  man— perhaps 
longer — these  creatures  have  kept  their  counsel  beside  him, 
and  there  is  no  record  of  any  word  or  sign  that  has  passed 
from  one  to  the  other.  Nay,  what  does  history  yet  record 
of  the  metaphysical  annals  of  man?  What  light  does  it 
shed  on  those  mysteries  which  we  hide  under  the  names 
Death  and  Immortality?  Yet  every  history  should  be 
written  in  a  wisdom  which  divined  the  range  of  our  affin 
ities,  and  looked  at  facts  as  symbols.  I  am  ashamed  to  see 
what  a  shallow  village-tale  our  so-called  History  is.  How 
many  times  we  must  say  Rome,  and  Paris,  and  Constanti 
nople.  What  does  Rome  know  of  rat  and  lizard?  What 
are  Olympiads  and  Consulates  to  these  neighboring  systems 
of  being?  Nay,  what  food  or  experience  or  succor  have  they 
for  the  Esquimaux  seal-hunter,  for  the  Kanaka  in  his 
canoe,  for  the  fisherman,  the  stevedore,  the  porter? 

Broader  and  deeper  we  must  write  our  annals — from  an 
ethical  reformation,  from  an  influx  of  the  ever-new,  ever- 
sanative  conscience — if  we  would  trulier  express  our  central 
and  wide-related  nature,  instead  of  this  old  chronology  of 
selfishness  and  pride  to  which  we  have  too  long  lent  our 
eyes.  Already  that  day  exists  for  us,  shines  in  on  us  at 
unawares;  but  the  path  of  science  and  of  letters  is  not  the 
way  into  nature,  but  from  it  rather.  The  idiot,  the  Indian, 
the  child,  and  the  unschooled  farmer's  boy,  come  much  nearer 
to  these, — understand  them  better  than  the  dissector  or  the 
antiquary. 


IV 

EXPERIENCE 

The  lords  of  life,  the  lords  of  life,  — 

I  saw  them  pass 

In  their  own  guise, 

Like  and  unlike, 

Portly  and  grim, 

Use  and  Surprise, 

Surface  and  Dream, 

Succession  swift,  and  spectral  Wrong, 

Temperament  without  a  tongue, 

And  the  inventor  of  the  game 

Omnipresent  without  name;  — 

Some  to  see,  some  to  be  guessed, 

They  marched  from  east  to  west: 

Little  man,  least  of  all, 

Among  the  legs  of  his  guardians  tall, 

Walked  about  with  puzzled  look:  — 

Him  by  the  hand  dear  nature  took; 

Dearest  nature,  strong  and  kind, 

Whispered,  "Darling,  never  mind! 

To-morrow  they  will  wear  another  face, 

The  founder  thou!  these  are  thy  race!" 

WHERE  do  we  find  ourselves  ?  In  a  series,  of  which  we  do 
not  know  the  extremes,  and  believe  that  it  has  none.  We 
wake,  and  find  ourselves  on  a  stair:  there  are  stairs  below 
us,  which  we  seem  to  have  ascended;  there  are  stairs  above 
us,  many  a  one,  which  go  upward  and  out  of  sight.  But 
the  Genius  which,  according  to  the  old  belief,  stands  at  the 
door  by  which  we  enter,  and  gives  us  the  lethe  to  drink, 
that  we  may  tell  no  talcs,  mixed  the  cup  too  strongly,  and 
we  cannot  shake  off  the  lethargy  now  at  noon-day.  Sleep 
lingers  all  our  lifetime  about  our  eyes,  as  night  hovers  all 
day  in  the  boughs  of  the  fir-tree.  All  things  swim  and  glim 
mer.  Our  life  is  not  so  much  threatened  as  our  perception. 
Ghost-like  we  glide  through  nature,  and  should  not  know 


EXPERIENCE  87 

our  place  again.  Did  our  birth  fall  in  some  fit  of  indigence 
and  frugality  in  nature,  that  she  was  so  sparing  of  her 
fire  and  so  liberal  of  her  earth,  that  it  appears  to  us  that 
we  lack  the  affirmative  principle,  and  though  we  have 
health  and  reason,  yet  we  have  no  superfluity  of  spirit  for 
new  creation?  We  have  enough  to  live  and  bring  the  year 
about,  but  not  an  ounce  to  impart  or  to  invest.  Ah,  that  our 
Genius  were  a  little  more  of  a  genius!  We  are  like 
millers  on  the  lower  levels  of  a  stream,  when  the  factories 
above  them  have  exhausted  the  water.  We,  too,  fancy 
that  the  upper  people  must  have  raised  their  dams. 

If  any  of  us  knew  what  we  were  doing,  or  where  we  are 
going,  then  when  we  think  we  best  know!  We  do  not 
know  to-day  whether  we  are  busy  or  idle.  In  times, 
when  we  thought  ourselves  indolent,  we  have  afterwards 
discovered,  that  much  was  accomplished,  and  much  was 
begun  in  us.  All  our  days  are  so  unprofitable  while  they 
pass,  that  'tis  wonderful  where  or  when  we  ever  got  any 
thing  of  this  which  we  call  wisdom,  poetry,  virtue.  We 
never  got  it  on  any  dated  calendar  day.  Some  heavenly 
days  must  have  been  intercalated  somewhere,  like  those 
that  Hermes  won  with  dice  of  the  Moon,  that  Osiris  might 
be  born.  It  is  said,  all  martyrdoms  looked  mean  when  they 
were  suffered.  Every  ship  is  a  romantic  object,  except 
that  we  sail  in.  Embark,  and  the  romance  quits  our  vessel, 
and  hangs  on  every  other  sail  in  the  horizon.  Our  life  looks 
trivial,  and  we  shun  to  record  it.  Men  seem  to  have  learned 
of  the  horizon  the  art  of  perpetual  retreating  and  reference. 
"Yonder  uplands  are  rich  pasturage,  and  my  neighbor  has 
fertile  meadow,  but  my  field,"  says  the  querulous  farmer, 
'only  holds  the  world  together."  I  quote  another  man  say 
ing;  unluckily,  that  other  withdraws  himself  in  the  same  way, 
and  quotes  me.  Tis  a  trick  of  nature  thus  to  degrade 
to-day;  a  good  deal  of  buzz,  and  somewhere  a  result 
slipped  magically  in.  Every  roof  is  agreeable  to  the  eye, 
until  it  is  lifted:  then  we  find  tragedy,  and  moaning 
women,  and  hard-eyed  husbands,  and  deluges  of  lethe, 
and  the  men  ask,  "What's  the  news?"  as  if  the  old  were 
so  bad.  How  many  individuals  can  we  count  in  society? 


88  EXPERIENCE 

how  many  actions?  how  many  opinions?  So  much  of 
our  time  is  preparation,  so  much  is  routine,  and  so  much 
retrospect,  that  the  pith  of  each  man's  genius  contracts 
itself  to  a  very  few  hours.  The  history  of  literature — 
take  the  net  result  of  Tiraboschi,  Warton,  or  Schlegel — 
is  a  sum  of  very  few  ideas,  and  of  very  few  original  tales, — 
all  the  rest  being  variations  of  these...  So  in  this  great 
society  wide  lying  around  us,  a  critical  analysis  would  find 
very  few  spontaneous  actions.  It  is  almost  all  custom  and 
gross  sense.  There  are  even  few  opinions,  and  these  seem 
organic  in  the  speakers,  and  do  not  disturb  the  universal 
necessity. 

What  opium  is  instilled  into  all  disaster!  It  shows 
formidable  as  we  approach  it,  but  there  is  at  last  no  rough 
rasping  friction,  but  the  most  slippery,  sliding  surfaces. 
We  fall  soft  on  a  thought.  Ate  Dea  is  gentle, 

"Over  men's  heads  walking  aloft, 
With  tender  feet  treading  so  soft." 

People  grieve  and  bemoan  themselves,  but  it  is  not  half 
so  bad  with  them  as  they  say.  There  are  moods  in  which 
we  court  suffering,  in  the  hope  that  here,  at  least,  we 
shall  find  reality,  sharp  peaks  and  edges  of  truth.  But 
it  turns  out  to  be  scene-painting,  and  counterfeit.  The  only 
thing  grief  has  taught  me,  is  to  know  how  shallow  it  is. 
That,  like  all  the  rest,  plays  about  the  surface,  and  never 
introduces  me  into  the  reality,  for  contact  with  which,  we 
would  even  pay  the  cosily-  price  of  sons  and  lovers.  Was 
it  Boscovich  who  found  out  that  bodies  never  come  in  con 
tact?  Well,  souls  never_touch  their  objects.  An  in- 
navjgablejeajKashes  with  silent  waves  between  us  and  the 
things  we  aim  _at  and  converse  with.  Grief,  too,  will  make 
us  idealists.  In  the  death  of  my^on,  now  more  than  two 
years  ago,  I  seem  to  have  loslrtf  beautiful,  estate, — no  more. 
I  cannot  get  it  nearer  to  me.  If  to-morrow~I  should  be  in 
formed  of  the  bankruptcy  of  my  principal  debtors,  the  loss 
of  my  property  would  be  a  great  inconvenience  to  me, 
perhaps,  for  many  years;  but  it  would  leave  me  as  it  found 
me, — neither  better  nor  worse.  So  it  is  with  this  calamity: 


EXPERIENCE  89 

it  does  not  touch  me :  something  which  I  fancied  was  a  part 
of  me, — which  could  not  be  torn  away  without  tearing  me, 
nor  enlarged  without  enriching  me;  falls  off  from  me,  and 
leaves  no  scar.'  It  was  caducous.  I  grieve  jthai  grief  can 
teach ^mejiothing,  nor  cajry  me  .one  _atefL. into,  real  nature. 
TheTndian  who  was  laid  under  a  curse,  that  the  wind  should 
not  Blow  on  hirn^  nor  water  flow  to  him,  nor  fire  burn  him,  is  a 
type  of  us  _all.  The  dearest  events  are  summer  rain,  and 
we  the  Para  coats  that  shed  every  drop.  Nothing  is 
left  us  now  but  death.  We  look  to  that  with  a  grim  satis 
faction,  saying,  there  at  least  is  reality  that  will  not  dodge 
us. 

/  I  take  Jhis__evanescence  and  lubricity  of  all  objects,  which 
lets  tlTem  slip  through  our  fingers  then  when  we  clutch  hard 
est,  to  be  the  most  unhandsome  part  of  our  condition. 
Nature  docs  not  like  to  be  observed,  and  likes  that  we 
should  be  her  fools  and  playmates.  We  may  have  the 
sphere  for  our  cricket-ball,  but  not  a  berry  for  our  phil 
osophy.  Direct  strokes  she  never  gave  us  power  to  make; 
all  our  blows  glance,  all  our  hits  are  accidents.  Our  re 
lations  to  each  other  are  oblique  and  casual. 


Dream  delivers  ..us.  to  dream^nd-there  is  no  end  to  illu- 
sjon.  Life  is  a  train  of  moods  like  a  string  of  beads,  and, 
as  we  pass" through  them,  they  prove  to  be  many-colored 
louses  winch  paint  the  world  their  own  hue,. and  .each  .shows 
only  what  lies  in  its  focus.  From  the  mountain  you  see 
the  mountain.  We  animate  what  we  can,  and  we  see  only 
what  we  animate.  Nature  and  books  belong  to  the  eyes 
that  see  them.  It  depends  on  the  mood  of  the  man,  whether 
he  shall  see  the  sunset  or  the  fine  poem.  There_are  always 
sunsets,  and  there  is  always  genius;  but.. only  a  few  hours  so 
serene  that  we  can  jrelish  nature  or  criticsm.  The  more  or 
less  depends  on  structure  of" temperament.  Temperament 
is  the  iron  wire  on  which  the  beads  are  strung.  Of  what 
use  is  fortune  or  talent  to  a  cold  and  defective  nature? 
Who  cares  what  sensibility  or  discrimination  a  man  has  at 
some  time  shown,  if  he  falls  asleep  in  his  chair?  or  if  he 
laugh  and  giggle?  or  if  he  apologize?  or  is  affected  with 


90  EXPERIENCE 

egotism?  or  thinks  of  his  dollar?  or  cannot  go  by  food?  or 
has  gotten  a  child  in  his  boyhod?  Of  what,  use  is  genius, 
if  the  organ  is  too  convex  or  too  concave,  and  cannot  find  a 
focal  distance  within  the  actual  horizon  of  human  life? 
Of  what  use,  if  tHe'BralIiTs~too  coIdToTtooTiot,  and  the  man 
does  not  care  enougfrtor  results^"  £6  stimulate  him  to  ex 
periment,  and  hold  him  up  in  it?  or  if  the  web  is  too  finely 
woven,  too  irritablel by  pleasure  and  pamTso "that life  stag 
nates  from  too  much  reception,  "witHout  due  outlet?  Of 
what  use  to  make  heroic  vows  of  amendment,  if  the  same 
old  law-breaker  is  to  keep  them?  What  cheer  can  the 
religious  sentiment  yield,  when  that  is  suspected  to  be  secretly 
dependent  on  the  seasons  of  the  year,  and  the  state  of  the 
blood?  I  knew  a  witty  physiciajjjKho-Jound  theology  in  the 
<  biliary  duct,  and  used  to  affirm  tliat  if  there  was  disease 
)  in  the  liver,  the  man  became  a  Calvinist,  and  if  that  organ 
£  was  sound  he  became  a  Unitarian.  Very  mortifying  is  the 
reluctant  experience  that  some  unfriendly  excess  or  im 
becility  neutralizes  the  promise  of  genius.  We  see  young 
men  who  owe  us  a  new  world,  so  readily  and  lavishly  they 
promise,  but  they  never  acquit  the  debt;  they  die  young 
and  dodge  the  account :  or  if  they  live,  they  lose  themselves 
in  the  crowd. 

Temperament  also  enters  fully  into  the  system  of  illusions, 
andrshuts  us  in  a  prison  of~glass  which  we  Cannot  see. 
There  is  an  optical  iju^on^  about  every  person  we  meet.  In 
truth,  they  are  air  creatures  of  given  temperament,  which 
will  appear  in  a  given  character,  whose  boundaries  they 
will  never  pass:  but  we  look  at  them,  they  seem  alive,  and 
we  presume  there  is  impulse  in  them.  In  the  moment,  it 
seems  impulse;  in  the  year,  in  the  lifetime,  it  turns  out  to 
be  a  certain-UiiiEarnxlune  wh^c_b^the_reyolying  barrel  of  the 
music-bqx_  must  play.  Men  resist  the  conclusion  in  the 
morning,  but  adopt  it  as  the  evening  wears  on,  that  temper 
prevails  over  every  thing  of  time,  place,  and  condition, 
and  is  inconsumable  in  the  flames  of  religion.  Some  mod 
ifications  the  moral  sentiment  avails  to  impose,  but  the  in 
dividual  texture  holds  its  dominion,  if  not  to  bias  the 
moral  judgments,  yet  to  fix  the  measure  of  activity  and  of 


EXPERIENCE  91 

enjoyment. 

I  thus  express  the  law  as  it  is  read  from  the  platform 
of  ordinary  life,  but  must  not  leave  it  without  noticing  the 
capital  exception.  For  temperament  is  a  power  which  no 
man  willingly  hears  anyone  praise  but  himself.  On  the 
platform  of  physics,  we  cannot  resist  the  contracting  in 
fluences  of  so-called  science.  Temperament  puts  all  div 
inity  to  rout.  I  know  the  mental  proclivity  of  physicians. 
I  hear  the  chuckle  of  the  phrenologists.  Theoretic  kid 
nappers  and  slave-drivers,  they  esteem  each  man  the 
victim  of  another,  who  winds  him  round  his  finger  by 
knowing  the  law  of  his  being,  and  by  such  cheap  sign 
boards  as  the  color  of  his  beard,  or  the  slope  of  his 
occiput,  read  the  inventory  of  his  fortunes  and  character. 
The  grossest  ignorance^  does _nol_disgus t.  like  .this  impudent 
knqwingness.  The  physicians  say,  they  are  not  material 
ists;  but  they  are: — Spirit  is  matter  reduced  to  an  extreme 
thinness:  0  so  thin! — But  the  definition  of  spiritual  should 
be,  that  which  is  its  own  evidence.  What  notions  do  they 
attach  to  love!  what  to  religion!  One  would  not  willingly 
pronounce  these  words  in  their  hearing,  and  give  them  the 
occasion  to  profane  them.  I  saw  a  gracious  gentleman 
who  adapts  his  conversation  to  the  form  of  the  head  of  the 
man  he  talks  with!  I  had  fancied  that  the  value  of  life 
lay  in  its  inscrutable  possibilities;  in  the  fact,  that  I  never 
know,  in  addressing  myself  to  a  new  individual,  what  may 
befall  me.  I  carry  the  keys  of  my  castle  in  my  hand, 
ready  to  throw  them  at  the  feet  of  my  lord,  whenever  and 
in  what  disguise  soever  he  shall  appear.  I  know  he  is  in 
the  neighborhood,  hidden  among  vagabonds.  Shall  I  pre 
clude  my  future,  by  taking  a  high  seat,  and  kindly  adapt 
ing  my  conversation  to  the  shape  of  heads?  When  I 
come  to  that,  the  doctors  shall  buy  me  for  a  cent. — "But, 
sir,  medical  history;  the  report  to  the  Institute;  the  proven 
facts!" — I  distrust  the  facts  and  the  inferences.  Temper-, 
ament  is  the  veto  or  limitation-power  in  the  constitution,! 
very  justly  applied  to  restrain  an  opposite  excess  in  the  I 
constitution,  but  absurdly  offered  as  a  bar  to  original  equity,  / 
When  virtue  is  in  presence,  all  subordinate  powers  sleep 


92  EXPERIENCE 

On  its  own  level,  or  in  the  view  of  nature,  temperament  is 
final.  I  see  not,  if  one  be  once  caught  in  this  trap  of  so- 
called  sciences,  any  escape  for  the  man  from  the  links  of 
the  chain  of  physical  necessity.  Given  such  an  embryo, 
puch  a  history  must  follow.  On  this  platform,  one  lives 
in  a  sty  of  sensualism,  and  would  soon  come  to  suicide. 
But  it  is  impossible  that  the  creative  power  should  exclude 
itself.  Into  every  intelligence  there  is  a  door  which  is 
never  closed,  through  which  the  creator  passes.  The  in 
tellect,  seeker  of  absolute  truth,  or  the  heart,  lover  of  ab 
solute  good,  intervenes  for  our  succor,  and  at  one  whisper  of 
these  high  powers,  we  awake  from  ineffectual  struggles 
with  this  nightmare.  We  hurl  it  into  its  own  hell,  and 
cannot  again  contract  ourselves  to  so  base  a  state. 

The  secret  of  the  illusoriness  is  in  the  necessity  of  a  suc 
cession  of  moods  or  objects.  Gladly  we  would  anchor, 
but  the  anchorage  is  quicksand.  This  onward  trick  of 
nature  is  too  strong  for  us:  Pero  si  muove.  When,  at  night, 
I  look  at  the  moon  and  stars,  I  seem  stationary,  and  they 
to  hurry.  Our  love  of  the  real  draws  us  to  permanence, 
but  health  of  body  consists  in  circulation,  and  sanity  of 
mind  in  variety  or  facility  of  association.  We  need  change 
of  objects.  Dedication  to  one  thought  is  quickly  odious. 
We  house  with  the  insane,  and  must  humor  them;  then  con 
versation  dies  out.  Once  I  took  such  delight  in  Montaigne, 
that  I  thought  I  should  not  need  any  other  book;  before 
that,  in  Shakspeare;  then  in  Plutarch;  then  in  Plotinus;  at 
one  time  in  Bacon;  afterwards  in  Goethe;  even  in  Bettine; 
but  now  I  turn  the  pages  of  either  of  them  languidly, 
whilst  I  still  cherish  their  genius.  So  with  pictures;  each 
will  bear  an  emphasis  of  attention  once,  which  it  cannot  re 
tain,  though  we  fain  would  continue  to  be  pleased  in  that 
manner.  How,  strongly  I  have  felt  of  pictures,  that  when 
you  have  seen  one  well,  you  must  take  your  leave  of  it; 
you  shall  never  see  it  again.  I  have  had  good  lessons  from 
pictures,  which  I  have  since  seen  without  emotion  or  remark. 
A  deduction  must  be  made  from  the  opinion,  which  even  the 
wise  express  of  a  new  book  or  occurrence.  Their  opinion 
gives  me  tidings  of  their  mood,  and  some  vague  guess  at 


EXPERIENCE  93 

the  new  fact,  but  is  nowise  to  be  trusted  as  the  lasting  re 
lation  between  that  intellect  and  that  thing.  The  child  asks, — 
"Mama,  why  don't  I  like  the  story  as  well  as  when  you  told 
it  me  yesterday?"    Alas!  child,  it  is  even  so  with  the  oldest 
cherubim  of  knowledge.    But  will  it  answer  thy  question  to 
say, — Because  thou  wert  born  to  a  whole,  and  this  story 
is  a   particular?    The  reason  of  the  pain  this  discovery  , 
causes  us  (and  we  make  it  late  in  respect  to  works  of  art  ^ 
and  intellect),  is  the  plaint  of  tragedy  which  murmurs  from 
it  in  regard  to  persons,  to  friendship  and  love. 

That  immobility  and  absence  of  elasticity  which  we  find 
in  the  arts,  we  find  with  more  pain  in  the  artist.  There  is 
no  power  of  expansion  in  man.  Our  friends  early  appear 
to  us  representatives  of  certain  ideas,  which  they  never 
pass  or  exceed.  They  stand  on  the  brink  of  the  ocean  of 
thought  and  power,  but  they  never  take  the  single  step 
that  would  bring  them  there.  A  man  is  like  a  bit  of  Lab 
rador  spar,  which  has  no  lustre  as  you  turn  it  in  your  hand, 
until  you  come  to  a  particular  angle;  then  it  shows  deep 
and  beautiful  colors.  There  is  no  adaptation  or  universal 
applicability  in  men,  but  each  has  his  special  talent,  and  the 
mastery  of  successful  men  consists  in  adroitly  keeping 
themselves  where  and  when  that  turn  shall  be  oftenest  to  be 
practised.  We  do  what  we  must,  and  call  it  by  the  best 
names  we  can,  and  would  fain  have  the  praise  of  having 
intended  the  result  which  ensues.  I  cannot  recall  any 
form  of  man  who  is  not  superfluous  sometimes.  But  is 
not  this  pitiful?  Life  is  not  worth  the  taking,  to  do  tricks 
in. 

Of  course,  it  needs  the  whole  society,  to  give  the  sym 
metry  we  seek.  The  parti-colored  wheel  must  revolve  very 
fast  to  appear  white.  Something  is  learned  too  by  con 
versing  with  so  much  folly  and  defect.  In  fine,  whoever 
loses,  we  are  always  of  the  gaining  party.  Divinity  is 
behind  our  failures  and  follies  also.  The  plays  of  children 
are  nonsense,  but  very  educative  nonsense.  So  is  it  with  the 
largest  and  solemnest  things,  with  commerce,  government, 
church,  marriage,  and  so  with  the  history  of  every  man's 
bread,  and  the  ways  by  which  he  is  to  come  by  it.  Like 


94  EXPERIENCE 

a  bird  which  alights  nowhere,  but  hops  perpetually  from 
bough  to  bough,  is  the  Power  which  abides  in  no  man  and 
in  no  woman,  but  for  a  moment  speaks  from  this  one,  and 
for  another  moment  from  that  one. 

But  what  help  from  these  fineries  or  pedantries;  What 
help  from  thought?  Life  is  not  dialectics.  We,  I  think,  in 
these  times,  have  had  lessons  enough  of  the  futility  of 
criticism.  Our  young  people  have  thought  and  written 
much  on  labor  and  reform,  and  for  all  that  they  have 
written,  neither  the  world  nor  themselves  have  got  on  a 
step.  Intellectual  tasting  of  life  will  not  supersede  muscular 
activity.  If  a  man  should  consider  the  nicety  of  the  pass 
age  of  a  piece  of  bread  down  his  throat,  he  would  starve. 
At  Education-Farm,  the  noblest  theory  of  life  sat  on  the 
noblest  figures  of  young  men  and  maidens,  quite  power 
less  and  melancholy.  It  would  not  rake  or  pitch  a  ton  of 
hay;  it  would  not  rub  down  a  horse;  and  the  men  and  maid 
ens  it  left  pale  and  hungry.  A  political  orator  wittily 
compared  our  party  promises  to  western  roads,  which  opened 
stately  enough,  with  planted  trees  on  either  side,  to  tempt 
the  traveller,  but  soon  became  narrow  and  narrower,  and 
ended  in  a  squirrel-track,  and  ran  up  a  tree.  So  does 
culture  with  us;  it  ends  in  head-ache.  Unspeakably  sad 
and  barren  does  life  look  to  those,  who  a  few  months  ago 
were  dazzled  with  the  splendor  of  the  promise  of  the  times. 
"There  is  now  no  longer  any  right  course  of  action,  nor  any 
self-devotion  left  among  the  Iranis."  Objections  and 
criticism  we  have  had  our  fill  of.  There  are  objections  to 
every  course  of  life  and  action,  and  the  practical  wisdom 
infers  an  indifferency,  from  the  omnipresence  of  objection. 
The  whole  frame  of  things  preaches  indifferency.  Do  not 
craze  yourself  with  thinking,  but  go  about  your  business 
anywhere.  Life  is  not  intellectual  or  critical,  but  sturdy. 
Its  chief  good  is  for  well-mixed  people  who  can  enjoy  what 
they  find  without  question.  Nature  hates  peeping,  and  our 
mothers  speak  her  very  sense  when  they  say,  "Children, 
eat  your  victuals,  and  say  no  more  of  it."  To  fill  the  hour, — 
that  is  happines;  to  fill  the  hour,  and  leave  no  crevice  for 
a  repentance  or  an  approval.  We  live  amid  surfaces,  and 


EXPERIENCE  95 

the  true  art  of  life  is  to  skate  well  on  them.  Under  the 
oldest,  mouldiest  conventions,  a  man  of  native  force  prospers 
just  as  well  as  in  the  newest  world,  and  that  by  skill  of 
handling  and  treatment.  He  can  take  hold  anywhere. 
Life  itself  is  a  mixture  of  power  and  form,  and  will  not 
bear  the  least  excess  of  either.  To  finish  the  moment,  to 
find  the  journey's  end  in  every  step  of  the  road,  to  live 
the  greatest  number  of  good  hours,  is  wisdom.  It  is  not 
the  part  of  men,  but  of  fanatics,  or  of  mathematicians,  if 
you  will,  to  say,  that,  the  shortness  of  life  considered,  it  is 
not  worth  caring  whether  for  so  short  a  duration  we  were 
sprawling  in  want,  or  sitting  high.  Since  our  office  is 
with  moments,  let  us  husband  them.  Five  minutes  of  to 
day  are  worth  as  much  to  me  as  five  minutes  in  the  next 
millennium.  Let  us  be  poised,  and  wise,  and  our  own  to 
day.  Let  us  treat  the  men  and  women  well:  treat  them  as 
if  they  were  real:  perhaps  they  are.  Men  live  in  their 
fancy,  like  drunkards  whose  hands  are  too  soft  and  trem 
ulous  for  successful  labor.  It  is  a  tempest  of  fancies,  and 
the  only  ballast  I  know,  is  a  respect  to  the  present  hour. 
Without  any  shadow  of  doubt,  amidst  this  vertigo  of  shows 
and  politics,  I  settle  myself  ever  the  firmer  in  the  creed, 
that  we  should  not  postpone  and  refer  and  wish,  but  do 
broad  justice  where  we  are,  by  whomsoever  we  deal  with, 
accepting  our  actual  companions  and  circumstances,  how 
ever  humble  or  odious,  as  the  mystic  officials  to  whom  the 
universe  has  delegated  its  whole  pleasure  for  us.  If  these 
are  mean  and  malignant,  their  contentment,  which  is  the 
last  victory  of  justice,  is  a  more  satisfying  echo  to  the  heart/, 
than  the  voice  of  poets  and  the  casual  sympathy  of  admir 
able  persons.  I  think  that  however  a  thoughtful  man  may 
suffer  from  the  defects  and  absurdities  of  his  company, 
he  cannot  without  affectation  deny  to  any  set  of  men  and 
women,  a  sensibility  to  extraordinary  merit.  The  coarse 
and  frivolous  have  an  instinct  of  superiority,  if  they  have 
not  a  sympathy  and  honor  it  in  their  blind  capricious  way 
with  sincere  homage. 

The  fine  young  people  despise  life,  but  in  me,  and  in 
such  as  with  me  are  free  from  dyspepsia,  and  to  whom  a  day 


96  EXPERIENCE 

is  a  sound  and  solid  good,  it  is  a  great  excess  of  politeness  to 
look  scornful  and  to  cry  for  company.  I  am  grown  by 
sympathy  a  little  eager  and  sentimental,  but  leave  me  alone, 
and  I  should  relish  every  hour  and  what  it  brought  me,  the 
pot-luck  of  the  day,  as  heartily  as  the  oldest  gossip  in  the 
bar-room.  I  am  thankful  for  small  mercies.  I  compared 
notes  with  one  of  my  friends  who  expects  everything  of 
the  universe,  and  is  disappointed  when  anything  is  less 
than  the  best,  and  I  found  that  I  begin  at  the  other  extreme, 
expecting  nothing,  and  am  always  full  of  thanks  for  moder 
ate  goods.  I  accept  the  clangor  and  jangle  of  contrary 
tendencies.  I  find  my  account  in  sots  and  bores  also. 
They  give  a  reality  to  the  circumjacent  picture,  which 
such  a  vanishing  meteorous  appearance  can  ill  spare.  In 
the  morning  I  awake,  and  find  the  old  world,  wife,  babes*, 
and  mother,  Concord  and  Boston,  the  dear  old  spiritual 
world,  and  even  the  dear  old  devil  not  far  off.  If  .we 
will  take  the  good  we  find,  asking  no  questions,  we  shall 
have  heaping  measures.  The  great  gifts  are  not  got  by 
analysis.  Every  thing  good  is  on  the  highway.  The 
middle  region  of  our  being  is  the  temperate  zone.  We  may 
climb  into  the  thin  and  cold  realm  of  pure  geometry  and 
lifeless  science,  or  sink  into  that  of  sensation.  Between 
these  extremes  is  the  equator  of  life,  of  thought,  of  spirit, 
of  poetry  —  a  narrow  belt.  Morever,  in  popular  expe 
rience,  every  thing  good  is  on  the  highway.  A  collector 
peeps  into  all  the  picture-shops  of  Europe,  for  a  land 
scape  of  Poussin,  a  crayon-sketch  of  Salvator;  but  the 
Transfiguration,  the  Last  Judgment,  the  Communion  of 
St.  Jerome,  and  what  are  as  transcendent  as  these,  are  on 
the  walls  of  the  Vatican,  the  Uffizi,  or  the  Louvre,  where 
every  footman  may  see  them;  to  say  nothing  of  nature's 
pictures  in  every  street,  of  sunsets  and  sunrises  every  day, 
and  the  sculpture  of  the  human  body  never  absent.  A  col 
lector  recently  bought  at  public  auction,  in  London,  for 
one  hundred  and  fifty-seven  guineas,  an  autograph  of 
Shakspeare:  but  for  nothing  a  school-boy  can  read  Hamlet, 
and  can  detect  secrets  of  highest  concernment  yet  unpub 
lished  therein.  I  think  I  will  never  read  any  but  the  com- 


EXPERIENCE  97 

monest  books, — the  Bible,  Homer,  Dante,  Shakspeare,  and 
Milton.  We  grow  impatient  of  so  public  a  life  and  planet, 
and  run  hither  and  thither  for  nooks  and  secrets.  The  im 
agination  delights  in  the  wood-craft  of  Indians,  trappers, 
and  bee-hunters.  We  fancy  that  we  are  strangers,  and 
not  so  intimately  domesticated  in  the  planet  as  the  wild 
man,  and  the  wild  beast  and  bird.  But  the  exclusion 
reaches  them  also:  reaches  the  climbing,  flying,  gliding, 
feathered  and  four-footed  man.  Fox  and  woodchuck,  hawk 
and  snipe,  and  bittern,  when  nearly  seen,  have  no  more  root 
in  the  deep  world  than  man,  and  are  just  such  superficial 
tenants  of  the  globe.  Then  the  new  molecular  philosophy 
shows  astronomical  inter-spaces  betwixt  atom  and  atom, 
shows  that  the  world  is  all  outside:  it  has  no  inside. 

The  mid-world  is  best.  Nature,  as  we  know  her,  is  no 
saint.  The  lights  of  the  church,  the  ascetics,  Gentoos  and 
Grahamites,  she  does  not  distinguish  by  any  favor.  She 
comes  eating  and  drinking  and  sinning.  Her  darlings, 
the  great,  the  strong,  the  beautiful,  are  not  children  of 
our  law,  do  not  come  out  of  the  Sunday  School,  nor  weigh 
their  food,  nor  punctually  keep  the  commandments.  If 
we  will  be  strong  with  her  strength,  we  must  not  harbor 
such  disconsolate  consciences,  borrowed  too  from  the  con 
sciences  of  other  nations.  We  must  set  up  the  strong 
present  tense  against  all  the  rumors  of  wrath,  past  or  to 
come.  So  many  things  are  unsettled  which  it  is  of  the  first 
importance  to  settle — and,  pending  their  settlement,  we 
will  do  as  we  do.  Whilst  the  debate  goes  forward  on  the 
equity  of  commerce,  and  will  not  be  closed  for  a  century 
or  two,  New  and  Old  England  may  keep  shop.  Law  of 
copyright  and  international  copyright  is  to  be  discussed, 
and,  in  the  interim,  we  will  sell  our  books  for  the  most  we 
can.  Expediency  of  literature,  reason  of  literature,  law 
fulness  of  writing  down  a  thought,  is  questioned;  much  is 
to  say  on  both  sides,  and  while  the  fight  waxes  hot,  thou, 
dearest  scholar,  stick  to  thy  foolish  task,  add  a  line  every 
hour,  and  between  whiles  add  a  line  Right  to  hold  land, 
right  of  property,  is  disputed,  and  the  conventions  con 
vene,  and  before  the  vote  is  taken,  dig  away  in  your  garden, 


98  EXPERIENCE 

and  spend  your  earnings  as  a  waif  or  godsend  to  all  serene 
and  beautiful  purposes.  Life  itself  is  a  bubble  and  a  scepti 
cism,  and  a  sleep  within  a  sleep.  Grant  it,  and  as  much 
more  as  they  will, — but  thou,  God's  darling!  heed  thy 
private  dream:  thou  wilt  not  be  missed  in  the  scorning  and 
scepticism:  there  are  enough  of  them:  stay  there  in  thy 
closet,  and  toil,  until  the  rest  are  agreed  what  to  do  about 
it.  Thy  sickness,  they  say,  and  thy  puny  habit,  require 
that  thou  do  this  or  avoid  that,  but  know  that  thy  life  is  a 
flitting  state,  a  tent  for  a  night,  and  do  thou,  sick  or  well, 
finish  that  stint.  Thou  art  sick,  but  shalt  not  be  worse, 
and  the  universe,  which  holds  thee  dear,  shall  be  the  better. 
f  Human  life  is  made  up  of  the  two  elements,  power  and 
form,  and  the  proportion  must  be  invariably  kept,  if  we 
would  have  it  sweet  and  sound.  Each  of  these  elements  in 
excess  makes  a  mischief  as  hurtful  as  its  defect.  Every 
thing  runs  to  excess:  every  good  quality  is  noxious,  if  un 
mixed,  and,  to  carry  the  danger  to  the  edge  of  ruin,  nature 
causes  each  man's  peculiarity  to  superabound.  Here, 
among  the  farms,  we  adduce  the  scholars  as  examples  of 
this  treachery.  They  are  the  victims  of  expression. 
You  who  see  the  artist,  the  orator,  the  poet,  too  near,  and 
find  their  life  no  more  excellent  than  that  of  mechanics 
or  farmers,  and  themselves  victims  of  partiality,  very  hollow 
and  haggard,  and  pronounce  them  failures, — not  heroes, 
but  quacks — conclude,  very  reasonably,  that  these  arts  are 
not  for  man,  but  are  disease.  Yet  nature  will  not  bear  you 
out.  Irresistible  nature  made  them  such,  and  makes  legions 
more  of  such  every  day.  You  love  the  boy  reading  in  a 
book,  gazing  at  a  drawing,  or  a  cast:  yet  what  are  these 
millions  who  read  and  behold,  but  incipient  writers  and 
sculptors?  Add  a  little  more  of  that  quality  which  now 
reads  and  sees,  and  they  will  seize  the  pen  and  chisel.  And 
if  one  remembers  how  innocently  he  began  to  be  an  artist, 
he  perceives  that  nature  joined  with  his  enemy.  A  man 
is  a  golden  impossibility.  The  line  he  must  walk  is  a  hair's 
breadth.  The  wise  through  excess  of  wisdom  is  made  a  fool. 
How  easily,  if  fate  would  suffer  it,  we  might  keep  for  ever 
these  beautiful  limits,  and  adjust  ourselves,  once  for  all, 


EXPERIENCE  99 

to  the  perfect  calculation  of  the  kingdom  of  known  cause 
and  effect.  In  the  street  and  in  the  newspapers,  life  appears 
so  plain  a  business,  that  manly  resolution  and  adherence  to 
the  multiplication-table  through  all  weathers,  will  ensure 
success.  But,  ah!  presently  comes  a  day,  or  is  it  only  a 
half-hour,  with  its  angel-whispering, — which  discomfits  the 
conclusions  of  nations  and  of  years!  To-morrow,  again, 
every  thing  looks  real  and  angular,  the  habitual  standards 
are  reinstated,  common-sense  is  as  rare  as  genius, — is  the 
basis  of  genius,  and  experience  is  hands  and  feet  to  every 
enterprise; — and  yet,  he  who  should  do  his  business  on  this 
understanding,  would  be  quickly  bankrupt.  Power  keeps 
quite  another  road  than  the  turnpikes  of  choice  and  will, 
namely  the  subterranean  and  invisible  tunnels  and  channels 
of  life.  It  is  ridiculous  that  we  are  diplomatists,  and 
doctors,  and  considerate  people:  there  are  no  dupes  like 
these.  Life  is  a  series  of  surprises,  and  would  not  be 
worth  taking  or  keeping,  if  it  were  not.  God  delights  to 
isolate  us  every  day,  and  hide  from  us  the  past  and  the  fut 
ure.  We  would  look  about  us,  but  with  grand  politeness  he 
draws  down  before  us  an  impenetrable  screen  of  purest  sky, 
and  another  behind  us  of  purest  sky.  "You  will  not  re 
member,"  he  seems  to  say,  "and  you  will  not  expect."  All 
good  conversation,  manners,  and  action,  come  from  a  spon 
taneity  which  forgets  usages,  and  makes  the  moment  great. 
Nature  hates  calculators;  her  methods  are  saltatory  and 
impulsive.  Man  lives  by  pulses;  our  organic  movements 
are  such;  and  the  chemical  and  ethereal  agents  are  un- 
dulatory  and  alternate;  and  the  mind  goes  antagonizing  on, 
and  never  prospers  but  by  fits.  We  thrive  by  casualties. 
Our  chief  experiences  have  been  casual.  The  most  attract 
ive  class  of  people  are  those  who  are  powerful  obliquely, 
and  not  by  the  direct  stroke:  men  of  genius,  but  not  yet 
accredited:  one  gets  the  cheer  of  their  light  without  paying 
too  great  a  tax.  Theirs  is  the  beauty  of  the  bird,  or  the 
morning  light,  and  not  of  art.  In  the  thought  of  genius 
there  is  always  a  surprise;  and  the  moral  sentiment  is  well 
called  "the  newness,"  for  it  is  never  other;  as  new  to  the 
oldest  intelligence  as  to  the  young  child, — "the  kingdom 


100  EXPERIENCE 

that  cometh  without  observation."  In  like  manner,  for 
practical  success,  there  must  not  be  too  much  design.  A 
man  will  not  be  observed  in  doing  that  which  he  can  do 
best.  There  is  a  certain  magic  about  his  properest  action 
which  stupefies  your  powers  of  observation;  so  that,  though 
it  is  done  before  you,  you  wist  not  of  it.  The  art  of  life 
has  a  pudency,  and  will  not  be  exposed.  Every  man  is 
an  impossibility,  until  he  is  born;  every  thing  impossible, 
until  we  see  a  success.  The  ardors  of  piety  agree  at  last 
with  the  coldest  scepticism, — that  nothing  is  of  us  or  our 
works, — that  all  is  of  God.  Nature  will  not  spare  us  the 
smallest  leaf  of  laurel.  All  writing  comes  by  the  grace  of 
God,  and  all  doing  and  having.  I  would  gladly  be  mora], 
and  keep  due  metes  and  bounds,  which  I  dearly  love, 
and  allow  the  most  to  the  will  of  man,  but  I  have  set  my 
heart  on  honesty  in  this  chapter,  and  I  can  see  nothing  at 
last,  in  success  or  failure,  than  more  or  less  of  vital  force 
supplied  from  the  Eternal.  The  results  of  life  are  un- 
calculated  and  uncalculable.  The  years  teach  much  which 
the  days  never  know.  The  persons  who  compose  our 
company,  converse,  and  come  and  go,  and  design  and  execute 
many  things,  and  somewhat  comes  of  it  all,  but  an  un 
looked-for  result.  The  individual  is  always  mistaken. 
He  designed  many  things,  and  drew  in  other  persons  as  co 
adjutors,  quarrelled  with  some  or  all,  blundered  much,  and 
something  is  done;  all  are  a  little  advanced,  but  the  indi 
vidual  is  always  mistaken.  It  turns  out  somewhat  new, 
and  very  unlike  what  he  promised  himself. 

The  ancients,  struck  with  this  irreducibleness  of  the  ele- 
*fents  of  human  life  to  calculation,  exalted  Chance  into 
a  divinity,  but  that  is  to  stay  too  long  at  the  spark,-- 
which  glitters  truly  at  one  point —but  the  universe  is 
warm  with  the  latency  of  the  same  fire.  The  miracle  of 
life  which  will  not  be  expounded,  but  will  remain  a  miracle, 
introduces  a  new  element.  In  the  growth  of  the  embryo, 
Sir  Everard  Home,  I  think,  noticed  that  the  evolution  was 
not  from  one  central  point,  but  co-active  from  three  or 
more  points.  Life  has  no  memory.  That  which  proceeds 


EXPERIENCE  }'01 

in  succession  might  be  remembered,  but  that  which  is  co 
existent,  or  ejaculated  from  a  deeper  cause,  as  yet  far  from 
being  conscious,  knows  not  its  own  tendency.  So  is  it  with 
us,  now  sceptical,  or  without  unity,  because  immersed  in 
forms  and  effects  all  seeming  to  be  of  equal  yet  hostile  value; 
and  now  religious,  whilst  in  the  reception  of  spiritual  law. 
Bear  with  these  distractions,  with  this  coetaneous  growth  of 
the  parts:  they  will  one  day  be  members,  and  obey  one 
will.  On  that  one  will,  on  that  secret  cause,  they  nail 
our  attention  and  hope.  Life  is  hereby  melted  into  an  ex 
pectation  or  a  religion.  Underneath  the  inharmonious  and 
trivial  particulars,  is  a  musical  profession,  the  Ideal  journey 
ing  always  with  us, — the  heaven  without  rent  or  seam.  Do 
but  observe  the  mode  of  our  illumination.  When  I  con 
verse  with  a  profound  mind,  or  if  at  any  time,  being  alone, 
I  have  good  thoughts,  I  do  not  at  once  arrive  at  satisfaction, 
as  when,  being  thirsty,  I  drink  water,  or  go  to  the  fire,  being 
cold:  no!  but  I  am  at  first  apprised  of  my  vicinity  to  a 
new  and  excellent  region  of  life.  By  persisting  to  read  or 
to  think,  this  region  gives  further  sign  of  itself,  as  it  were  in 
flashes  of  light,  in  sudden  discoveries  of  its  profound  beauty 
and  repose,  as  if  the  clouds  that  covered  it  parted  at  int 
ervals,  and  showed  the  approaching  traveller  the  inland 
mountains,  with  the  tranquil,  eternal  meadows  spread  at 
their  base,  whereon  flocks  graze,  and  shepherds  pipe  and 
dance.  But  every  insight  from  this  realm  of  thought  is 
felt  as  initial,  and  promises  a  sequel.  I  do  not  make  it; 
I  arrive  there,  and  behold  wiiat  was  there  already.  I 
make!  0  no!  I  clap  my  hands  in  infantine  joy  and  amaze 
ment,  before  the  first  opening  to  me  of  this  august  magni 
ficence,  old  with  the  love  and  homage  of  innumerable  ages, 
young  with  the  life  of  life,  the  sunbright  Mecca  of  the 
desert.  And  what  a  future  it  opens!  I  feel  a  new  heart 
beating  with  the  love  of  the  new  beauty.  I  am  ready  to 
die  out  of  nature,  and  be  born  again  into  this  new,  yet 
unapproachable  America  I  have  found  in  the  West. 

Since  neither  now  nor  yesterday  began 

These  thoughts,  which  have  been  ever,  nor  yet  can 

A  man  be  found  who  their  first  entrance  knew. 


102.  EXPERIENCE 

If  I  have  described  life  as  a  flux  of  moods,  I  must  now  add, 
that  there  is  that  in  us  which  changes  not,  and  which  ranks 
all  sensations  and  states  of  mind.  The  consciousness  in 
each  man  is  a  sliding  scale,  which  identifies  him  now  with 
the  First  Cause,  and  now  with  the  flesh  of  his  body;  life 
above  life,  in  infinite  degrees.  The  sentiment  from  which 
it  sprung  determines  the  dignity  of  any  deed,  and  the  question 
ever  is,  not,  what  you  have  done  or  forborne,  but  at  whose 
command  you  have  done  or  forborne  it. 

Fortune,  Minerva,  Muse,  Holy  Ghost, — these  are  quaint 
names,  too  narrow  to  cover  this  unbounded  substance. 
The  baffled  intellect  must  still  kneel  before  this  cause, 
which  refuses  to  be  named, — ineffable  cause,  which  every 
fine  genius  has  essayed  to  represent  by  some  emphatic 
by  (Nous)  thought,  Zoroaster  by  fire,  Jesus  and  the  mod 
erns  by  love:  and  the  metaphor  of  each  has  become  a 
national  religion.  The  Chinese  Mencius  has  not  been  the 
least  successful  in  his  generalization.  "I  fully  understand 
language,"  he  said,  "and  nourish  well  my  vast-flowing 
vigor." — "I  beg  to  ask,  what  you  call  vast-flowing  vigor?" 
said  his  companion.  "The  explanation,"  replied  Mencius, 
"is  difficult.  This  vigor  is  supremely  great,  and  in  the 
highest  degree  unbending.  Nourish  it  correctly,  and  do  it 
no  injury,  and  it  will  fill  the  vacancy  between  heaven 
and  earth.  This  vigor  accords  with  and  assists  justice  and 
reason  and  leaves  no  hunger."  In  our  more  correct  writing, 
we  give  to  this  generalization  the  name  of  Being,  and  there 
by  confess  that  we  have  arrived  as  far  as  we  can  go. 
Suffice  it  for  the  joy  of  the  universe,  that  we  have  not 
arrived  at  a  wall,  but  at  interminable  oceans.  Our  life 
seems  not  present,  so  much  as  prospective;  not  for  the 
affairs  on  which  it  is  wasted,  but  as  a  hint  of  this  vast- 
flowing  vigor.  Most  of  life  seems  to  be  mere  advertisement 
of  faculty:  information  is  given  us  not  to  sell  ourselves 
cheap;  that  we  are  very  great.  So,  in  particulars,  our 
greatness  is  always  in  a  tendency  or  direction,  not  in 
an  action.  It  is  for  us  to  believe  in  the  rule,  not  in  the 
exception.  The  noble  are  thus  known  from  the  ignoble 


EXPERIENCE  103 

So  in  accepting  the  leading  of  the  sentiments,  it  is  not  what 
we  believe  concerning  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  or  the 
like,  but  the  universal  impulse  to  believe,  that  is  the  ma 
terial  circumstance,  and  is  the  principal  fact  in  the  history 
of  the  globe.  Shall  we  describe  this  cause  as  that  which 
works  directly?  The  spirit  is  not  helpless  or  needful  of 
mediate  organs.  It  has  plentiful  powers  and  direct  effects. 
I  am  explained  without  explaining,  I  am  felt  without  acting, 
and  where  I  am  not.  Therefore  all  just  persons  are  satis 
fied  with  their  own  praise.  They  refuse  to  explain  them 
selves,  and  are  content  that  new  actions  should  do  them  that 
office.  They  believe  that  we  communicate  without  speech, 
and  above  speech,  and  that  no  right  action  of  ours  is 
quite  unaffecting  to  our  friends  at  whatever  distance; 
for  the  influence  of  action  is  not  to  be  measured  by  miles. 
Why  should  I  fret  myself,  because  a  circumstance  has 
occurred,  which  hinders  my  presence  where  I  was  ex 
pected?  If  I  am  not  at  the  meeting,  my  presence  where  I 
am,  should  be  as  useful  to  the  commonwealth  of  friendship 
and  wisdom,  as  would  be  my  presence  in  that  place.  I 
exert  the  same  quality  of  power  in  all  places.  Thus  journeys 
the  mighty  Ideal  before  us;  it  never  was  known  to  fall  into 
the  rear.  No  man  ever  came  to  an  experience  which  was 
satiating,  but  his  good  is  tidings  of  a  better.  Onward  and 
onward !  In  liberated  moments,  we  know  that  a  new  picture 
of  life  and  duty  is  already  possible;  the  elements  already 
exist  in  many  minds  around  you,  of  a  doctrine  of  life  which 
shall  transcend  any  written  record  we  have.  The  new 
statement  will  comprise  the  scepticisms,  as  well  as  the  faiths 
of  society,  and  out  of  unbeliefs  a  creed  shall  be  formed. 
For  scepticisms  are  not  gratuitous  or  lawless,  but  are  limit 
ations  of  the  affirmative  statement,  and  the  new  philoso 
phy  must  take  them  in,  and  make  affirmations  outside  of 
them,  just  as  much  as  it  must  include  the  oldest  beliefs. 

It  is  very  unhappy,  but  too  late  to  be  helped,  the  dis 
covery  we  have  made,  that  we  exist.  That  discovery  is 
called  the  Fall  of  Man.  Ever  afterwards,  we  suspect  our 
instruments.  We  have  learned  that  we  do  not  see  directly, 


104  EXPERIENCE 

but  mediately,  and  that  we  have  no  means  of  correcting 
these  colored  and  distorted  lenses  which  we  are,  or  of  com 
puting  the  amount  of  their  errors.  Perhaps  these  subject- 
lenses  have  a  creative  power:  perhaps  there  are  no  objects. 
Once  we  lived  in  what  we  saw;  now,  the  rapaciousness  of 
this  new  power,  which  threatens  to  absorb  all  things,  en 
gages  us.  Nature,  art,  persons,  letters,  religions,  objects, 
successively  tumble  in,  and  God  is  but  one  of  its  ideas. 
Nature  and  literature  are  subjective  phenomena;  every 
evil  and  every  good  thing  is  a  shadow  which  we  cast.  The 
street  is  full  of  humiliations  to  the  proud.  As  the  fop  con 
trived  to  dress  his  bailiffs  in  his  livery,  and  make  them  wait 
on  his  guests  at  table,  so  the  chagrins  which  the  bad  heart 
gives  off  as  bubbles,  at  once  take  form  as  ladies  and  gentle 
men  in  the  street,  shopmen  or  bar-keepers  in  hotels,  and 
threaten  or  insult  whatever  is  threatenable  or  insultable 
in  us.  Tis  the  same  with  our  idolatries.  People  forget 
that  it  is  the  eye  which  makes  the  horizon,  and  the  rounding 
mind's  eye  which  makes  this  or  that  man  a  type  or  represen 
tative  of  humanity  with  the  name  of  hero  or  saint.  Jesus, 
the  "providential  man,"  is  a  good  man,  on  whom  many 
people  are  agreed  that  these  optical  laws  shall  take  effect. 
By  love  on  one  part,  and  by  forbearance  to  press  ob 
jection  on  the  other  part,  it  is  for  a  time  settled,  that  we 
will  look  at  him  in  the  center  of  the  horizon,  and  ascribe 
to  him  the  properties  that  will  attach  to  any  man  so  seen, 
But  the  longest  love  or  aversion  has  a  speedy  term.  The 
great  and  crescive  self,  rooted  in  absolute  nature,  supplants 
all  relative  existence,  and  ruins  the  kingdom  of  mortal 
friendship  and  love.  Marriage  (in  what  is  called  the 
spiritual  world)  is  impossible,  because  of  the  inequality 
between  every  subject  and  every  object.  The  subject  is 
the  receiver  of  Godhead,  and  at  every  comparison  must 
feel  his  being  enhanced  by  that  cryptic  might.  Though 
not  in  energy,  yet  by  presence,  this  magazine  of  substance 
cannot  be  otherwise  than  felt:  nor  can  any  force  of  in 
tellect  attribute  to  the  object  the  proper  deity  which  sleeps 
or  wakes  for  ever  in  every  subject.  Never  can  love  make 
consciousness  and  ascription  equal  in  force.  There  will 


EXPERIENCE  105 

be  the  same  gulf  between  every  me  and  thee,  as  between 
the  original  and  the  picture.  The  universe  is  the  bride  of 
the  soul.  All  private  sympathy  is  partial.  Two  human 
beings  are  like  globes,  which  can  touch  only  in  a  point,  and, 
whilst  they  remain  in  contact,  all  other  points  of  each  of 
the  spheres  are  inert;  their  turn  must  also  come,  and  the 
longer  a  particular  union  lasts,  the  more  energy  of  appe 
tency  the  parts  not  in  union  acquire. 

Life  will  be  imaged,  but  cannot  be  divided  nor  doubled. 
Any  invasion  of  its  unity  would  be  chaos.  The  soul  is 
not  twin-born,  but  the  only  begotten,  and  though  revealing 
itself  as  child  in  time,  child  in  appearance,  is  of  a  fatal  and 
universal  power,  admitting  no  co-life.  Every  day,  every 
act  betrays  the  ill-concealed  deity.  We  believe  in  ourselves 
as  we  do  not  believe  in  others.  We  permit  all  things  to  our 
selves,  and  that  which  we  call  sin  in  others,  is  experiment 
for  us.  It  is  an  instance  of  our  faith  in  ourselves,  that 
men  never  speak  of  crime  as  lightly  as  they  think:  or, 
every  man  thinks  a  latitude  safe  for  himself,  which  is 
nowise  to  be  indulged  to  another.  The  act  looks  very 
differently  on  the  inside,  and  on  the  outside;  in  its  quality 
and  in  its  consequences,  murder  in  the  murderer  is 
no  such  ruinous  thought  as  poets  and  romancers  will  have  it ; 
it  does  not  unsettle  him,  or  fright  him  from  his  ordinary 
notice  of  trifles:  it  is  an  act  quite  easy  to  be  contemplated, 
but  in  its  sequel,  it  turns  out  to  be  a  horrible  jangle  and 
confounding  of  all  relations.  Especially  the  crimes  that 
spring  from  love,  seem  right  and  fair  from  the  actor's 
point  of  view,  but,  when  acted,  are  found  destructive  of 
society.  No  man  at  last  believes  that  he  can  be  lost,  nor 
that  the  crime  in  him  is  as  black  as  in  the  felon;  because  the 
intellect  qualifies  in  our  own  case  the  moral  judgments. 
For  there  is  no  crime  to  the  intellect.  That  is  antinomian 
or  hypernomian,  and  judges  law  as  well  as  fact.  "It  is 
worse  than  crime,  it  is  a  blunder,"  said  Napoleon,  speaking 
the  language  of  the  intellect.  To  it,  the  world  is  a  problem 
in  mathematics  or  the  science  of  quantity,  and  it  leaves  out 
praise  and  blame,  and  all  weak  emotions.  All  stealing 
is  comparative.  If  you  come  to  absolutes,  pray  who  does 


106  EXPERIENCE 

not  steal?  Saints  are  sad,  because  they  behold  sin  (even 
when  they  speculate)  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  con 
science,  and  not  of  the  intellect;  a  confusion  of  thought. 
Sin  seen  from  the  thought,  is  a  diminution  or  less :  seen  from 
the  conscience  or  will,  it  is  pravity  or  bad.  The  intellect 
names  it  shade,  absence  of  light,  and  no  essence.  The  con 
science  must  feel  it  as  essence,  essential  evil.  This  it  is 
not:  it  has  an  objective  existence,  but  no  subjective. 

Thus  inevitably  does  the  universe  wear  our  color,  and 
every  object  fall  successively  into  the  subject  itself.  The 
subject  exists,  the  subject  enlarges;  all  things  sooner  or 
later  fall  into  place.  As  I  am,  so  I  see;  use  what  language 
we  will,  we  can  never  say  anything  but  what  we  are; 
Hermes,  Cadmus,  Columbus,  Newton,  Bonaparte,  are 
the  mind's  ministers.  Instead  of  feeling  a  poverty  when 
we  encounter  a  great  man,  let  us  treat  the  new  comer  like 
a  travelling  geologist,  who  passes  through  our  estate,  and 
shows  us  good  slate,  or  limestone,  or  anthracite,  in  our 
brush  pasture.  The  partial  action  of  each  strong  mind  in 
one  direction,  is  a  telescope  for  the  objects  on  which  it  is 
pointed.  But  every  other  part  of  knowledge  is  to  be  pushed 
to  the  same  extravagance,  ere  the  soul  attains  her  due 
sphericity.  Do  you  see  that  kitten  chasing  so  prettily  her 
own  tail?  If  you  could  look  with  her  eyes,  you  might  see 
her  surrounded  with  hundreds  of  figures  performing  com 
plex  dramas,  with  tragic  and  comic  issues,  long  conver 
sations,  many  characters,  many  ups  and  downs  of  fate, — 
and  meantime  it  is  only  puss  and  her  tail.  How  long 
before  our  masquerade  will  end  its  noise  of  tambourines, 
laughter,  and  shouting,  and  we  shall  find  it  was  a  solitary 
performance? — A  subject  and  an  object,  it  takes  so  much  to 
make  the  galvanic  circuit  complete,  but  magnitude  adds 
nothing.  What  imports  it  whether  it  is  Kepler  and  the 
sphere;  Columbus  and  America;  a  reader  and  his  book; 
or  puss  with  her  tail? 

It  is  true  that  all  the  muses,  and  love,  and  religion  hate 
these  developments,  and  will  find  a  way  to  punish  the 
chemist,  who  publishes  in  the  parlor  the  secrets  of  the 
laboratory.  And  we  cannot  say  too  little  of  our  consti- 


EXPERIENCE  107 

tutional  necessity  of  seeing  things  under  private  aspects, 
or  saturated  with  our  humors.  And  yet  is  the  God  the 
native  of  these  bleak  rocks.  That  need  makes  in  morals 
the  capital  virtue  of  self-trust.  We  must  hold  hard  to  this 
poverty,  however  scandalous,  and  by  more  vigorous  self- 
recoveries,  after  the  sallies  of  action,  possess  our  axis  more 
firmly.  The  life  of  truth  is  cold,  and  so  far  mournful; 
but  it  is~not  the  slave  of  tears,  contritions,  and  pertur 
bations.  It  does  not  attempt  another's  work,  nor  adopt 
another's  facts.  It  is  a  main  lesson  of  wisdom  to  know 
your  own  from  another's.  I  have  learned  that  I  cannot 
dispose  of  other  people's  facts;  but  I  possess  such  a  key 
to  my  own,  as  persuades  me  against  all  their  denials,  that 
they  also  have  a  key  to  theirs.  A  sympathetic  person  is 
placed  in  the  dilemma  of  a  swimmer  among  drowning  men, 
who  all  catch  at  him,  and  if  he  gives  so  much  as  a  leg  or  a 
finger,  they  will  drown  him.  They  wish  to  be  saved  from 
the  mischief  of  their  vices,  but  not  from  their  vices. 
Charity  would  be  wasted  on  this  poor  waiting  on  the  symp 
toms.  A  wise  and  hardy  physician  will  say,  Come  out  of 
that,  as  the  first  condition  of  advice. 

In  this  our  talking  America,  we  are  ruined  by  our  good 
nature  and  listening  on  all  sides.  This  compliance  takes 
away  the  power  of  being  greatly  useful.  A  man  should  not 
be  able  to  look  other  than  directly  and  forthright.  A 
preoccupied  attention  is  the  only  answer  to  the  importunate 
frivolity  of  other  people :  an  attention,  and  to  an  aim  which 
makes  their  wants  frivolous.  This  is  a  divine  ans\ver,  and 
leaves  no  appeal,  and  no  hard  thoughts.  In  Flax-man's 
drawing  of  the  Eumenides  of  JEschylus,  Orestes  supplicates 
Apollo,  whilst  the  Furies  sleep  on  the  threshold.  The  face 
of  the  god  expresses  a  shade  of  regret  and  compassion, 
but  calm  with  the  conviction  of  the  irreconcilableness  of 
the  two  spheres.  He  is  born  into  other  politics,  into  the 
internal  and  beautiful.  The  man  at  his  feet  asks  for  his 
interests  in  turmoils  of  the  earth,  into  which  his  nature 
cannot  enter.  And  the  Eumenides  there  lying  express 
pictorially  this  disparity.  The  god  is  surcharged  with  his 
•divine  destiny. 


108  EXPERIENCE 

Illusion,  Temperament,  Succession,  Surface,  Surprise, 
Reality,  Subjectiveness, — these  are  threads  on  the  loom 
of  time,  these  are  the  lords  of  life.  I  dare  not  assume  to 
give  their  order,  but  I  name  them  as  I  find  them  in  my 
way.  I  know  better  than  to  claim  any  completeness  for 
my  picture.  I  am  a  fragment,  and  this  is  a  fragment  of  me. 
I  can  very  confidently  announce  one  or  another  law,  which 
throws  itself  into  relief  and  form,  but  I  am  too  young  yet 
by  some  ages  to  compile  a  code.  I  gossip  for  my  hour  con 
cerning  the  eternal  politics.  I  have  seen  many  fair  pictures 
not  in  vain.  A  wonderful  time  I  have  lived  in.  I  am  not 
the  novice  I  was  fourteen,  nor  yet  seven  years  ago.  Let 
who  will  ask,  where  is  the  fruit?  I  find  a  private  fruit 
sufficient.  This  is  a  fruit, — that  I  should  not  ask  for  a  rash 
effect  from  meditations,  counsels,  and  the  hiving  of  truths. 
I  should  feel  it  pitiful  to  demand  a  result  on  this  town  and 
county,  an  overt  effect  on  the  instant  month  and  year.  The 
effect  is  deep  and  secular  as  the  cause.  It  works  on  periods 
in  which  mortal  lifetime  is  lost.  All  I  know  is  reception; 
I  am  and  I  have:  but  I  do  not  get,  and  when  I  have  fancied 
I  had  gotten  anything,  I  found  I  did  not.  I  worship  with, 
wonder  the  great  Fortune.  My  reception  has  been  so 
large,  that  I  am  not  annoyed  by  receiving  this  or  that  super 
abundantly.  I  say  to  the  Genius,  if  he  will  pardon  the 
proverb,  In  for  a  mill,  in  for  a  million.  When  I  receive 
a  new  gift,  I  do  not  macerate  my  body  to  make  the  account 
square,  for.  if  I  should  die,  I  could  not  make  the  account 
square.  The  benefit  overran  the  merit  the  first  day,  and 
has  overran  the  merit  ever  since.  The  merit  itself,  so- 
called,  I  reckon  part  of  the  receiving. 

Also,  that  hankering  after  an  overt  or  practical  effect, 
seems  to  me  an  apostasy.  In  good  earnest,  I  am  willing 
to  spare  this  most  unnecessary  deal  of  doing.  Life  wears 
to  me  a  visionary  face  Hardest,  roughest  action  is  vision 
ary  also.  It  is  but  a  choice  between  soft  and  turbulent 
dreams.  People  disparge  knowing  and  the  intellectual 
life,  and  urge  doing.  I  am  very  content  with  knowing,  if 
only  I  could  know.  That  is  an  august  entertainment,  and 
would  suffice  me  a  great  while.  To  know  a  little,  would  be 


EXPERIENCE  109 

worth  the  expense  of  this  world.  I  hear  always  the  law  of 
Adrastia,  "that  every  soul  which  had  acquired  any  truth, 
should  be  safe  from  harm  until  another  period." 

I  know  that  the  world  I  converse  with  in  the  city  and  in 
the  farms,  is  not  the  world  I  think.  I  observe  that  differ 
ence,  and  shall  observe  it.  One  day,  I  shall  know  the 
value  and  the  law  of  this  discrepance.  But  I  have  not 
found  that  much  was  gained  by  manipular  attempts  to 
realize  the  world  of  thought.  Many  eager  persons  success 
ively  make  an  experiment  in  this  way,  and  make  themselves 
ridiculous.  They  acquire  democratic  manners,  they  foam 
at  the  mouth,  they  hate  and  deny.  Worse,  I  observe,  that, 
in  the  history  of  mankind,  there  is  never  a  solitary  example 
of"  success, — taking  their  own  tests  of  success.  I  say  this 
polemically,  or  in  reply  to  the  inquiry,  why  not  realize 
your  world?  But  far  be  from  me  the  despair  which  pre 
judges  the  law  by  a  paltry  empiricism, — since  there  never 
was  a  right  endeavor,  but  it  succeeded.  Patience  and  patience, 
we  shall  win  at  the  last.  We  must  be  very  suspicious  of 
the  deceptions  of  the  element  of  time.  It  takes  a  good 
deal  of  time  to  eat  or  to  sleep,  or  to  earn  a  hundred  dollars; 
and  a  very  little  time  to  entertain  a  hope  and  an  insight 
which  becomes  the  light  of  our  life.  We  dress  our  garden, 
eat  our  dinners,  discuss  the  household  with  our  wives, — 
and  these  things  make  no  impression — are  forgotten  next 
week;  but  in  the  solitude  to  which  every  man  is  always 
returning,  he  has  a  sanity  and  revelations,  which,  in  his 
passage  into  new  worlds,  he  will  carry  with  him.  Never 
mind  the  ridicule,  never  mind  the  defeat:  up  again,  old 
heart! — it  seems  to  say, — there  is  victory  yet  for  all 
justice;  and  the  true  romance  which  the  world  exists  to 
realize,  will  be  the  transformation  of  genius  into  practical 
power. 


USES  OF  GREAT  MEN 

IT  is  natural  to  believe  in  great  men.  If  the  companions 
of  our  childhood  should  turn  out  to  be  heroes,  and  their 
condition  regal,  it  would  not  surprise  us.  All  mythology 
opens  with  demigods,  and  the  circumstance  is  high  and 
poetic;  that  is,  their  genius  is  paramount.  In  the  legends 
of  the  Gautama,  the  first  men  ate  the  earth,  and  found  it 
deliciously  sweet. 

Nature  seems  to  exist  for  the  excellent.  The  world  is 
upheld  by  the  veracity  of  good  men:  they  make  the  earth 
wholesome.  They  who  lived  with  them  found  life  glad 
and  nutritious.  Life  is  sweet  and  tolerable  only  in  our 
belief  in  such  society;  and  actually,  or  ideally,  we  manage 
to  live  with  superiors.  We  call  our  children  and  our  lands 
by  their  names.  Their  names  are  wrought  into  the  verbs 
of  language,  their  works  and  effigies  are  in  our  houses,  and 
every  circumstance  of  the  day  recalls  an  anecdote  of  them. 

The  search  after  the  great  is 'the  dream  of  youth,  and  the 
most  serious  occupation  of  manhood.  We  travel  into  for 
eign  parts  to  find  his  works, — if  possible,  to  get  a  glimpse  of 
him.  But  we  are  put  off  with  fortune  instead.  You  say, 
the  English  are  practical;  the  Germans  are  hospitable;  in 
Valencia,  the  climate  is  delicious;  and  in  the  hills  of  Sacra 
mento,  there  is  gold  for  the  gathering.  Yes,  but  I  do 
not  travel  to  find  comfortable,  rich,  and  hospitable  people, 
or  clear  sky,  or  ingots  that  cost  too  much.  But  if  there 
were  any  magnet  that  would  point  to  the  countries  and 
houses  where  are  the  persons  who  are  intrinsically  rich 
and  powerful,  I  would  sell  all,  and  buy  it,  and  put  myself 
on  the  road  to-day. 

The  race  goes  with  us  on  their  credit.  The  knowledge, 
110 


USES  OF  GREAT   MEN  111 

that  in  the  city  is  a  man  who  invented  the  railroad,  raises 
the  credit  of  all  the  citizens.  But  enormous  populations, 
if  they  be  beggars,  are  disgusting,  like  moving  cheese,  like 
hills  of  ants,  or  of  fleas — the  more,  the  worse. 

Our  religion  is  the  love  and  cherishing  of  these  patrons. 
The  gods  of  fable  are  the  shining  moments  of  great  men. 
We  run  all  our  vessels  into  one  mould.  Our  colossal  theolo 
gies  of  Judaism,  Christism,  Buddhism,  Mahometism,  are 
the  necessary  and  structural  action  of  the  human  mind. 
The  student  of  history  is  like  a  man  going  into  a  warehouse 
to  buy  cloths  or  carpets.  He  fancies  he  has  a  new  article. 
If  he  go  to  the  factory,  he  shall  find  that  his  new  stuff  still 
repeats  the  scrolls  and  rosettes  which  are  found  on  the 
interior  walls  of  the  pyramids  of  Thebes.  Our  theism  is 
the  purification  of  the  human  mind.  Man  can  paint,  or 
make,  or  think  nothing  but  man.  He  believes  that  the  great 
material  elements  had  their  origin  from  his  thought.  And 
our  philosophy  finds  one  essence  collected  or  distributed. 

If  now  we  proceed  to  inquire  into  the  kinds  of  service  we 
derive  from  others,  let  us  be  warned  of  the  danger  of  modern 
studies,  and  begin  low  enough.  We  must  not  contend 
against  love,  or  deny  the  substantial  existence  of  other  people. 
I  know  not  what  would  happen  to  us.  We  have  social 
strengths.  Our  affection  towards  others  creates  a  sort 
of  vantage  or  purchase  which  nothing  will  supply.  I  can 
do  that  by  another  which  I  cannot  do  alone.  I  can  say  to 
you  what  I  cannot  first  say  to .  myself.  Other  men  are 
lenses  through  which  we  read  our  own  minds.  Each  man 
seeks  those  of  different  quality  from  his  own,  and  such  as 
are  good  of  their  kind;  that  is,  he  seeks  other  men,  and  the 
otherest.  The  stronger  the  nature,  the  more  it  is  reactive. 
Let  us  have  the  quality  pure.  A  little  genius  let  us  leave 
alone.  A  main  difference  betwixt  men  is,  whether  they 
attend  their  own  affair  or  not.  Man  is  that  noble  en 
dogenous  plant  which  grows,  like  the  palm,  from  within, 
outward.  His  own  affair,  though  impossible  to  others,  he 
can  open  with  celerity  and  in  sport.  It  is  easy  to  sugar 
to  be  sweet,  and  to  nitre  to  be  salt.  We  take  a  great  deal 
of  pains  to  waylay  and  entrap  that  which  of  itself  will 


112  USES   OF   GREAT   MEN 

fall  into  our  hands.  I  count  him  a  great  man  who  inhabits 
a  higher  sphere  of  thought,  into  which  other  men  rise  with 
labor  and  difficulty;  he  has  but  to  open  his  eyes  to  see  things 
in  a  true  light,  and  in  large  relations;  whilst  they  must 
make  painful  corrections,  and  keep  a  vigilant  eye  on  many 
sources  of  error.  His  service  to  us  is  of  like  sort.  It  costs 
a  beautiful  person  no  exertion  to  paint  her  image  on  our 
eyes;  yet  how  splendid  is  that  benefit!  It  costs  no  more 
for  a  wise  soul  to  convey  his  quality  to  other  men.  And 
every  one  can  do  his  best  thing  easiest.  "Pen  de  moyens, 
beaucoup  d'effet."  He  is  great  who  is  what  he  is  from  nature, 
and  who  never  reminds  us  of  others. 

But  he  must  be  related  to  us,  and  our  life  receive  from 
him  some  promise  of  explanation.  I  cannot  tell  what  I 
would  know;  but  I  have  observed  there  are  persons,  who, 
in  their  character  and  actions,  answer  questions  which 
I  have  not  skill  to  put.  One  man  answers  some  questions 
which  none  of  his  contemporaries  put,  and  is  isolated.  The 
past  and  passing  religions  and  philosophies  answer  some 
other  question.  Certain  men  affect  us  as  rich  possibilities, 
but  helpless  to  themselves  and  to  their  times, — the  sport, 
perhaps,  of  some  instinct  that  rules  in  the  air; — they  do 
not  speak  to  our  want.  But  the  great  are  near:  we  know 
them  at  sight.  They  satisfy  expectation,  and  fall  into 
place.  What  is  good  is  effective,  generative;  makes  for 
itself  room,  food,  and  allies.  A  sound  apple  produces  seed, — 
a  hybrid  does  not.  Is  a  man  in  his  place,  he  is  construc 
tive,  fertile,  magnetic,  inundating  armies  with  his  purpose, 
which  is  thus  executed.  The  river  makes  its  own  shores,  and 
each  legitimate  idea  makes  its  own  channels  and  welcome, — 
harvests  for  food,  institutions  for  expression,  weapons  to 
fight  with,  and  desciples  to  explain  it.  The  true  artist  has 
the  planet  for  his  pedestal;  the  adventurer,  after  years  of 
strife,  has  nothing  broader  than  his  own  shoes. 

Our  common  discourse  respects  two  kinds  of  use  of  ser 
vice  from  superior  men.  Direct  giving  is  agreeable  to  the 
early  belief  of  men;  direct  giving  of  material  or  meta 
physical  aid,  as  of  health,  eternal  youth,  fine  senses,  arts 
of  healing,  magical  power,  and  prophecy.  TUe  boy  believes 


USES   OF  GREAT  MEN  113 

there  is  a  teacher  who  can  sell  him  wisdom.  Churches 
believe  in  imputed  merit.  But,  in  strictness,  we  are  not 
much  cognizant  of  direct  serving.  Man  is  endogenous, 
and  education  is  his  unfolding.  The  aid  we  have  from  others 
is  mechanical,  compared  with  the  discoveries  of  nature  in 
us.  What  is  thus  learned  is  delightful  in  the  doing,  and  the 
effect  remains.  Right  ethics  are  central,  and  go  from  the  soul 
outward.  Gift  is  contrary  to  the  law  of  the  universe. 
Serving  others  is  serving  us.  I  must  absolve  me  to  myself. 
"Mind  thy  affair,"  says  the  spirit: — "coxcomb,  would  you 
meddle  with  the  skies,  or  with  other  people?"  Indirect  ser 
vice  is  left.  Men  have  a  pictorial  or  representative  quality, 
and  serve  us  in  the  intellect.  Behmen  and  Swedenborg 
saw  that  things  were  representative.  Men  are  also  rep 
resentative;  first,  of  things,  and  secondly,  of  ideas. 

As  plants  convert  the  minerals  into  food  for  animals,  so 
each  man  converts  some  raw  material  in  nature  to  human 
use.  The  inventors  of  fire,  electricity,  magnetism,  iron, 
lead,  glass,  linen,  silk,  cotton;  the  makers  of  tools;  the  in 
ventor  of  decimal  notation;  the  geometer;  the  engineer; 
musician, — severally  make  an  easy  way  for  all,  through 
unknown  and  impossible  confusions.  Each  man  is,  by 
secret  liking,  connected  with  some  district  of  nature, 
whose  agent  and  interpreter  he  is,  as  Linnseus,  of  plants; 
Huber,  of  bees;  Fries,  of  lichens;  Van  Mons,  of  pears; 
Dalton,  of  atomic  forms;  Euclid,  of  lines;  Newton,  of 
fluxions. 

A  man  is  a  center  for  nature,  running  out  threads  of 
relation  through  every  thing,  fluid  and  solid,  material  and 
elemental.  The  earth  rolls;  every  clod  and  stone  comes  to 
the  meridian:  so  every  organ,  function,  acid,  crystal,  grain 
of  dust,  has  its  relation  to  the  brain.  It  waits  long,  but 
its  turn  comes.  Each  plant  has  its  parasite,  and  each 
created  thing  its  lover  and  poet.  Justice  has  already  been 
done  to  steam,  to  iron,  to  wood,  to  coal,  to  load  stone,  to 
iodine,  to  corn,  and  cotton;  but  how  few  materials  are  yet 
used  by  our  arts!  The  mass  of  creatures  and  of  qualities 
are  still  hid  and  expectant.  It  would  seem  as  if  each  waited, 
like  the  enchanted  princess  in  fairy  tales,  for  a  destined 


114  USES   OF  GREAT   MEN 

human  deliverer.  Each  must  be  disenchanted,  and  walk 
forth  to  the  day  in  human  shape.  In  the  history  of  dis 
covery,  the  ripe  and  latent  truth  seems  to  have  fashioned  a 
brain  for  itself.  A  magnet  must  be  made  man,  in  some 
Gilbert,  or  Swedenborg,  or  Oersted,  before  the  general  mind 
can  come  to  entertain  its  powers. 

If  we  limit  ourselves  to  the  first  advantages; — a  sober 
grace  adheres  to  the  mineral  and  botanic  kingdoms,  which, 
in  the  highest  moments,  comes  up  as  the  charm  of  nature,— 
the  glitter  of  the  spar,  the  sureness  of  affinity,  the  veracity 
of  angles.  Light  and  darkness,  heat  and  cold,  hunger  and 
food,  sweet  and  sour,  solid,  liquid,  and  gas,  circle  us  round 
in  a  wreath  of  pleasures,  and,  by  their  agreeable  quarrel, 
beguile  the  day  of  life.  The  eye  repeats  every  day  the 
finest  eulogy  on  things — "He  saw  that  they  were  good."  We 
know  where  to  find  them;  and  these  performers  are  relished 
all  the  more,  after  a  little  experience  of  the  pretending  races. 
We  are  entitled,  also,  to  higher  advantages.  Something  is 
wanting  to  science,  until  it  has  been  humanized.  The  table 
of  logarithms  is  one  thing,  and  its  vital  play,  in  botany, 
music,  optics,  and  architecture,  another.  There  are  ad 
vancements  to  numbers,  anatomy,  architecture,  astronomy, 
little  suspected  at  first,  when,  by  union  with  intellect  and 
will,  they  ascend  into  the  life,  and  reappear  in  conversation, 
character,  and  politics. 

But  this  comes  later.  We  speak  now  only  of  our  acquaint 
ance  with  them  in  their  own  sphere,  and  the  way  in  which 
they  seem  to  fascinate  and  draw  to  them  some  genius  who 
occupies  himself  with  one  thing,  all  his  life  long.  The  pos 
sibility  of  interpretation  lies  in  the  identity  of  the  observer 
with  the  observed.  Each  material  thing  has  its  celestial 
side;  has  its  translation,  through  humanity,  into  the  spirit 
ual  and  necessary  sphere,  where  it  plays  a  part  as  inde 
structible  as  any  other.  And  to  these,  their  ends,  all 
things  continually  ascend.  The  gases  gather  to  the  solid 
firmament:  the  chemic  lump  arrives  at  the  plant,  and  grows; 
arrives  at  the  quadruped,  and  walks;  arrives  at  the  man, 
and  thinks.  But  also  the  constituency  determines  the  vote 
of  the  representative.  He  is  not  only  representative, 


USES   OF   GREAT   MEN  115 

tout  participant.  Like  can  only  be  known  by  like.  The 
reason  why  he  knows  about  them  is,  that  he  is  of  them; 
he  has  just  come  out  of  nature,  or  from  being  a  part  of  that 
thing.  Animated  chlorine  knows  of  chlorine,  and  in 
carnate  zinc,  of  zinc.  Their  quality  makes  this  career; 
and  he  can  variously  publish  their  virtues,  because  they 
compose  him.  Man,  made  of  the  dust  of  the  world,  does 
not  forget  his  origin;  and  all  that  is  yet  inanimate  will  one 
day  speak  and  reason.  Unpublished  nature  will  have  its 
whole  secret  told.  Shall  we  say  that  quartz  mountains 
will  pulverize  into  innumerable  Werners,  Von  Buchs,  and 
Beaumonts;  and  the  laboratory  of  the  atmosphere  holds  in 
solution  I  know  not  what  Berzeliuses  and  Davys  ? 

Thus,  we  sit  by  the  fire,  and  take  hold  on  the  poles  of  the 
earth.  This  quasi  omnipresence  supplies  the  imbecility 
of  our  condition.  In  one  of  those  celestial  days,  when 
heaven  and  earth  meet  and  adorn  each  other,  it  seems  a 
poverty  that  we  can  only  spend  it  once:  we  wish  for  a 
thousand  heads,  a  thousand  bodies,  that  we  might  celebrate 
its  immense  beauty  in  many  ways  and  places.  Is  this 
fancy?  Well,  in  good  faith,  we  are  multiplied  by  our  prox 
ies.  How  easily  we  adopt  their  labors!  Every  ship  that 
comes  to  America  got  its  chart  from  Columbus.  Every 
novel  is  debtor  to  Homer.  Hvery  carpenter  who  shaves 
with  a  foreplane  borrows  the  genius  of  a  forgotten  in 
ventor.  Life  is  girt  all  around  with  a  zodiac  of  sciences, 
the  contributions  of  men  who  have  perished  to  add  their 
point  of  light  to  our  sky.  Engineer,  broker,  jurist,  physi 
cian,  moralist,  theologian,  and  every  man,  inasmuch  as  he 
has  any  science,  is  a  definer  and  map-maker  of  the  latitudes 
and  longitudes  of  our  condition.  These  road-makers  on 
every  hand  enrich  us.  We  must  extend  the  area  of  life, 
and  multiply  our  relations.  We  are  as  much  gainers  by 
finding  a  new  property  in  the  old  earth,  as  by  acquiring  a 
new  planet. 

We  are  too  passive  in  the  reception  of  these  material 
or  semi-material  aids.  We  must  not  be  sacks  and  stomachs. 
To  ascend  one  step, —  we  are  better  served  through  our 
sympathy.  Activity  is  contagious.  Looking  where  others 


116  USES  OF  GREAT   MEN 

look,  and  conversing  with  the  same  things,  we  catch  the 
charm  which  lured  them.  Napoleon  said,  "you  must  not 
fight  too  often  with  one  enemy,  or  you  will  teach  him  all 
your  art  of  war."  Talk  much  with  any  man  of  vigorous 
mind,  and  we  acquire  very  fast  the  habit  of  looking  at 
^things  in  the  same  light,  and,  on  each  occurrence,  we  antici 
pate  his  thought. 

Men  are  helpful  through  the  intellect  and  the  affections. 
Other  help,  I  find  a  false  appearance.  If  you  affect  to  give 
me  bread  and  fire,  I  perceive  that  I  pay  for  it  the  full  price, 
and  at  last  it  leaves  me  as  it  found  me,  neither  better  nor 
worse:  but  all  mental  and  moral  force  is  a  positive  good. 
It  goes  out  from  you,  whether  you  will  or  not,  and  profits 
me  whom  you  never  thought  of.  I  cannot  even  hear  of 
personal  vigor  of  any  kind,  great  power  of  performance, 
without  fresh  resolution.  We  are  emulous  of  all  that  man 
can  do.  Cecil's  saying  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  "I  know  that 
he  can  toil  terribly,"  is  an  electric  touch.  So  are  Clarendon's 
portraits, — of  Hampden;  "who  was  of  an  industry  and 
vigilance  not  to  be  tired  out  or  wearied  by  the  most  labo 
rious,  and  of  parts  not  to  be  imposed  on  by  the  most  subtle 
and  sharp,  and  of  a  personal  courage  equal  to  his  best 
parts" — of  Falkland;  "who  was  so  severe  an  adorer  of  truth, 
that  he  could  as  easily  have  given  himself  leave  to  steal, 
as  to  dissemble."  We  cannot  read  Plutarch,  without  a 
tingling  of  the  blood;  and  I  accept  the  saying  of  the  Chinese 
Mencius:  "A  sage  is  the  instructor  of  a  hundred  ages. 
When  the  manners  of  Loo  are  heard  of,  the  stupid  become 
intelligent,  and  the  wavering,  determined." 

This  is  the  moral  of  biography;  yet  it  is  hard  for  de 
parted  men  to  touch  the  quick  like  our  own  companions, 
whose  names  may  not  last  as  long.  What  is  he  whom  I  never 
think  of?  whilst  in  every  solitude  are  those  who  succor  our 
genius,  and  stimulate  us  in  wonderful  manners.  There  is 
a  power  in  love  to  divine  another's  destiny  better  than 
that  other  can,  and  by  heroic  encouragements,  hold  him 
to  his  task.  What  has  friendship  so  signaled  as  its  sub 
lime  attraction  to  whatever  virtue  is  in  us?  We  will 
never  more  think  cheaply  of  ourselves,  or  of  life.  We  are 


USES   OF   GREAT   MEN  117 

piqued  to  some  purpose,  and  the  industry  of  the  diggers 
on  the  railroad  will  not  again  shame  us. 

Under  this  head,  too,  falls  that  homage,  very  pure,  as  I 
think,  which  all  ranks  pay  to  the  hero  of  the  day,  from 
Coriolanus  and  Gracchus,  down  to  Pitt,  Lafayette,  Well 
ington,  Webster,  Lamartine.  Hear  the  shouts  in  the  street ! 
The  people  cannot  see  him  enough.  They  delight  in  a  man. 
Here  is  a  head  and  a  trunk!  What  a  front!  What  eyes! 
Atlantean  shoulders,  and  the  whole  carriage  heroic,  with  equal 
inward  force  to  guide  the  great  machine!  This  pleasure 
of  full  expression  to  that  which,  in  their  private  experience, 
is  usually  cramped  and  obstructed,  runs,  also,  much  higher, 
and  is  the  secret  of  the  reader's  joy  in  literary  genius. 
Nothing  is  kept  back.  There  is  fire  enough  to  fuse  the 
mountain  of  ore.  Shakspeare's  principal  merit  may  be  con 
veyed,  in  saying  that  he,  of  all  men,  best  understands  the 
English  language,  and  can  say  what  he  will.  Yet  these 
unchoked  channels  and  floodgates  of  expression  are  only 
health  or  fortunate  constitution.  Shakspeare's  name  sug 
gests  other  and  purely  intellectual  benefits. 

Senates  and  sovereigns  have  no  compliment,  with  their 
medals,  swords,  and  armorial  coats,  like  the  addressing  to 
a  human  being  thoughts  out  of  a  certain  height,  and  pre 
supposing  his  intelligence.  This  honor,  which  is  possible 
in  personal  intercourse  scarcely  twice  in  a  lifetime,  genius 
perpetually  pays;  contented,  if  now  and  then,  in  a  century, 
the  proffer  is  accepted.  The  indicators  of  the  values  of 
matter  are  degraded  to  a  sort  of  cooks  and  confectioners, 
on  the  appearance  of  the  indicators  of  ideas.  Genius  is 
the  naturalist  or  geographer  of  the  supersensible  regions, 
and  draws  on  their  map;  and,  by  acquainting  us  with  new 
fields  of  activity,  cools  our  affection  for  the  old.  These  are 
at  once  accepted  as  the  reality,  of  which  the  world  we  have 
conversed  with  is  the  show. 

We  go  to  the  gymnasium  and  the  swimming-school  to  see 
the  power  and  beauty  of  the  body ;  there  is  the  like  pleasure, 
and  a  higher  benefit,  from  witnessing  intellectual  feats  of  al? 
kinds;  as,  feats  of  memory,  of  mathematical  combination, 
great  power  of  abstraction,  the  transmutings  of  the  imagm- 


118  USES  OF  GREAT  MEN 

ation,  even  versatility,  and  concentration,  as  these  acts  ex 
pose  the  invisible  organs  and  members  of  the  mind,  which  re 
spond,  member  for  member  to  the  parts  of  the  body.  For, 
we  thus  enter  a  new  gymnasium,  and  learn  to  choose  men 
by  their  truest  marks,  taught,  with  Plato,  "to  choose  those 
who  can,  without  aid  from  the  eyes,  or  any  other  sense, 
proceed  to  truth  and  to  being."  Foremost  among  these 
activities,  are  the  somersaults,  spells,  and  resurrections, 
wrought  by  the  imagination.  When  this  wakes,  a  man  seems 
to  multiply  ten  times  or  a  thousand  times  his  force.  It 
opens  the  delicious  sense  of  intermediate  size,  and  inspires 
an  audacious  mental  habit.  We  are  as  elastic  as  the  gas  of 
gunpowder,  and  a  sentence  in  a  book,  or  a  word  dropped 
in  conversation,  sets  free  our  fancy,  and  instantly  our  heads 
are  bathed  with  galaxies,  and  our  feet  tread  the  floor  of  the 
Pit.  And  this  benefit  is  real,  because  we  are  entitled  to 
these  enlargements,  and,  once  having  passed  the  bounds, 
shall  never  again  be  quite  the  miserable  pedants  we  were. 

The  high  functions  of  the  intellect  are  so  allied,  that  some 
imaginative  power  usually  appears  in  all  eminent  minds, 
even  in  arithmeticians  of  the  first  class,  but  especially  in 
meditative  men  of  an  intuitive  habit  of  thought.  This 
class  serve  us,  so  that  they  have  the  perception  of  identity 
and  the  perception  of  reaction.  The  eyes  of  Plato,  Shak- 
speare,  Swedenborg,  Goethe,  never  shut  on  either  of  these 
laws.  The  perception  of  these  laws  is  a  kind  of  metre  of 
the  mind.  Little  minds  are  little,  through  failure  to  see 
them. 

Even  these  feasts  have  their  surfeit.  Our  delight  in 
reason  degenerates  into  idolatry  of  the  herald.  Especially 
when  a  mind  of  powerful  method  has  instructed  men,  we 
find  the  examples  of  oppression.  The  dominion  of  Aristotle, 
the  Ptolemaic  astronomy,  the  credit  of  Luther,  of  Bacon, 
of  Locke, — in  religion  the  history  of  hierarchies,  of  saints, 
and  the  sects  which  have  taken  the  name  of  each  founder, 
are  in  point.  Alas!  every  man  is  such  a  victim.  The  im 
becility  of  men  is  always  inviting  the  impudence  of  power. 
It  is  the  delight  of  vulgar  talent  to  dazzle  and  to  bind  the 
beholder.  But  true  genius  seeks  to  defend  us  from  itself, 


USES  OF  GREAT  MEN  119 

True  genius  will  not  impoverish,  but  will  liberate,  and  add 
new  senses.  If  a  wise  man  should  appear  in  our  village,  he 
would  create,  in  those  who  conversed  with  him,  a  new  con 
sciousness  of  wealth,  by  opening  their  eyes  to  unobserved 
advantages;  he  would  establish  a  sense  of  immovable 
equality,  calm  us  with  assurances  that  we  could  not  be 
cheated;  as  every  one  would  discern  the  checks  and  guaran 
ties  of  condition.  The  rich  would  see  their  mistakes  and 
poverty,  the  poor  their  escapes  and  their  resources. 

But  nature  brings  all  this  about  in  due  time.  Rotation 
is  her  remedy.  The  soul  is  impatient  of  masters,  and  eager 
for  change.  Housekeepers  say  of  a  domestic  who  has  been 
valuable,  "She  had  lived  with  me  long  enough."  We  are 
tendencies,  or  rather,  symptoms,  and  none  of  us  complete. 
We  touch  and  go,  and  sip  the  foam  of  many  lives.  Rotation 
is  the  law  of  nature.  When  nature  removes  a  great  man, 
people  explore  the  horizon  for  a  successor;  but  none  comes 
and  none  will.  His  class  is  extinguished  with  him.  In 
some  other  and  quite  different  field,  the  next  man  will  ap 
pear;  not  Jefferson,  not  Franklin,  but  now  a  great  salesman; 
then  a  road-contractor;  then  a  student  of  fishes;  then  a 
buffalo-hunting  explorer,  or  semi-savage  western  general. 
Thus  we  make  a  stand  against  our  rougher  masters;  but 
against  the  best  there  is  a  finer  remedy.  The  power 
which  they  communicate  is  not  theirs.  When  we  are  ex 
alted  by  ideas,  we  do  not  owe  this  to  Plato,  but  to  the  idea, 
to  which,  also,  Plato  was  debtor. 

I  must  not  forget  that  we  have  a  special  debt  to  a  single 
class.  Life  is  a  scale  of  degrees.  Between  rank  and  rank  of 
our  great  men  are  wide  intervals.  Mankind  have,  in  all 
ages,  attached  themselves  to  a  few  persons,  who,  either 
by  the  quality  of  that  idea  they  embodied,  or  by  the  large 
ness  of  their  reception,  were  entitled  to  the  position  of 
leaders  and  law-givers.  These  teach  us  the  qualities  of 
primary  nature, — admit  us  to  the  constitution  of  things. 
We  swim,  day  by  day,  on  a  river  of  delusions,  and  are 
effectually  amused  with  houses  and  towns  in  the  air,  of 
which  the  men  about  us  are  dupes.  But  life  is  a  sincerity. 
In  lucid  intervals  we  say,  "Let  there  be  an  entrance  opened 


120  USES  OF  GREAT  MEN 

for  me  into  realities.  I  have  worn  the  fool's  cap  too  long." 
We  will  know  the  meaning  of  our  economies  and  politics. 
Give  us  the  cipher,  and,  if  persons  and  things  are  scores  of 
a  celestial  music,  let  us  read  off  the  strains.  We  have  been 
cheated  of  our  reason;  yet  there  have  been  sane  men,  who 
enjoyed  a  rich  and  related  existence.  What  they  know,  they 
know  for  us.  With  each  new  mind,  a  new  secret  of  nature 
transpires;  i.or  can  the  Bible  be  closed,  until  the  last  great 
man  is  born.  These  men  collect  the  delirium  of  the  animal 
spirits,  make  us  considerate,  and  engage  us  to  new  aims  and 
powers.  The  veneration  of  mankind  selects  these  for  the 
highest  place.  Witness  the  multitude  of  statues,  pictures, 
and  memorials,  which  recall  their  genius  in  every  city, 
village,  house,  and  ship:— 

"Ever  their  phantoms  arise  before  us, 
Our  loftier  brothers,  but  one  in  blood; 

At  bed  and  table  they  lord  it  o'er  us, 

With  looks  of  beauty,  and  words  of  good." 

How  to  illustrate  the  distinctive  benefit  of  ideas,  the  service 
rendered  by  those  who  introduce  moral  truths  into  the  gen 
eral  mind  ? — I  am  plagued,  in  all  my  living,  with  a  perpetual 
tariff  of  prices.  If  I  work  in  my  garden,  and  prune  an  apple- 
tree,  I  am  well  enough  entertained,  and  could  continue  in 
definitely  in  the  like  occupation.  But  it  comes  to  mind 
that  a  day  is  gone,  and  I  have  got  this  precious  nothing  done. 
I  go  to  Boston  or  New  York,  and  run  up  and  down  on  my 
affairs;  they  are  sped,  but  so  is  the  day.  I  am  vexed  by 
the  recollection  of  this  price  I  have  paid  for  a  trifling  advan 
tage.  I  remember  the  peau  d'ane,  on  which  whoso  sat 
should  have  his  desire,  but  a  piece  of  the  skin  was  gone  for 
every  wish.  I  go  to  a  convention  of  philanthropists.  Do 
what  I  can,  I  cannot  keep  my  eyes  off  the  clock.  But  if 
there  should  appear  in  the  company  some  gentle  soul  who 
knows  little  of  persons  or  parties,  of  Carolina  or  Cuba,  but 
who  announces  a  law  that  disposes  these  particulars,  and 
so  certifies  me  of  the  equity  which  checkmates  every  false 
player,  bankrupts  every  self-seeker,  and  apprises  me  of  my 
independence  on  any  conditions  of  country,  or  time  or  human 


USES   OF   GREAT   MEN  121 

body,  that  man  liberates  me;  I  forget  the  clock.  I  pass 
out  of  the  sore  relation  to  persons.  I  am  healed  of  my 
hurts.  I  am  made  immortal  by  apprehending  my  posses 
sion  of  incorruptible  goods.  Here  is  great  competition  of 
rich  and  poor.  We  live  in  a  market,  where  is  only  so 
much  wheat,  or  wool,  or  land;  and  if  I  have  so  much  more, 
every  other  must  have  so  much  less.  I  seem  to  have  no 
good,  without  breach  of  good  manners.  Nobody  is  glad 
in  the  gladness  of  another,  and  our  system  is  one  of  war,  of 
an  injurious  superiority.  Every  child  of  the  Saxon  race 
is  educated  to  wish  to  be  first.  It  is  our  system;  and  a  man 
comes  to  measure  his  greatness  by  the  regrets,  envies,  and 
hatreds  of  his  competitors.  But  in  these  new  fields  there 
is  room:  here  are  no  self-esteems,  no  exclusions. 

I  admire  great  men  of  all  classes,  those  who  stand  for  facts, 
and  for  thoughts;  I  like  rough  and  smooth,  "Scourges  of 
God,"  and  "Darlings  of  the  human  race."  I  like  the  first 
Caesar;  and  Charles  V.,  of  Spain;  and  Charles  XII.,  of 
Sweden;  Richard  Plantagenet;  and  Bonaparte,  in  France. 
I  applaud  a  sufficient  man,  an  officer  equal  to  his  office; 
captains,  ministers,  senators.  I  like  a  master  standing  firm 
on  legs  of  iron,  well-born,  rich,  handsome,  eloquent,  loaded 
with  advantages,  drawing  all  men  by  fascination  into  trib 
utaries  and  supporters  of  his  power.  Sword  and  staff, 
or  talents  sword-like  or  staff-like,  carry  on  the  work 
of  the  world.  But  I  find  him  greater,  when  he  can  abolish 
himself,  and  all  heroes,  by  letting  in  this  element  of  reason, 
irrespective  of  persons;  this  subtilizer,  and  irresistible  up 
ward  force,  into  our  thought,  destroying  individualism; 
the  power  so  great,  that  the  potentate  is  nothing.  Then 
he  is  a  monarch,  who  gives  a  constitution  to  his  people; 
a  pontiff,  who  preaches  the  equality  of  souls,  and  releases 
his  servants  from  their  barbarous  homages ;  an  emperor,  who 
can  spare  his  empire. 

But  I  intended  to  specify,  with  a  little  minuteness,  two  or 
three  points  of  service.  Nature  never  spares  the  opium  of 
nepenthe;  but  wherever  she  mars  her  creature  with  some 
deformity  or  defect,  lays  her  poppies  plentifully  on  the 
bruise,  and  the  sufferer  goes  joyfully  through  life,  ignorant 


122  USES  OF  GREAT   MEN 

of  the  ruin,  and  incapable  of  seeing  it,  though  all  the  world 
point  their  finger  at  it  every  day.  The  worthless  and 
offensive  members  of  society,  whose  existence  is  a  social  pest, 
invariably  think  themselves  the  most  ill-used  people  alive, 
and  never  get  over  their  astonishment  at  the  ingratitude  and 
selfishness  of  their  contemporaries.  Our  globe  discovers  its 
hidden  virtues,  not  only  in  heroes  and  archangels,  but  in 
gossips  and  nurses.  Is  it  not  a  rare  contrivance  that  lodged 
the  due  inertia  in  every  creature,  the  conserving,  resisting 
energy,  the  anger  at  being  waked  or  changed?  Altogether 
independent  of  the  intellectual  force  in  each,  is  the  pride  of 
opinion,  the  security  that  we  are  right.  Not  the  feeblest 
grandame,  not  a  mowing  idiot,  but  uses  what  spark  of  per 
ception  and  faculty  is  left,  to  chuckle  and  triumph  in  his 
or  her  opinion  over  the  absurdities  of  all  the  rest.  Differ 
ence  from  me  is  the  measure  of  absurdity.  Not  one  has  a 
misgiving  of  being  wrong.  Was  it  not  a  bright  thought  that 
made  things  cohere  with  this  bitumen,  fastest  of  cements? 
But,  in  the  midst  of  this  chuckle  of  self-gratulation,  some 
figure  goes  by,  which  Thersites  too  can  love  and  admire. 
This  is  he  that  should  marshal  us  the  way  we  were  going. 
There  is  no  end  to  his  aid.  Without  Plato,  we  should  almost 
lose  our  faith  in  the  possibility  of  a  reasonable  book.  We 
seem  to  want  but  one,  but  we  want  one.  We  love  to  asso 
ciate  with  heroic  persons,  since  our  receptivity  is  unlimited; 
and,  with  the  great,  our  thoughts  and  manners  easily  be 
come  great.  We  are  all  wise  in  capacity,  though  so  few  in 
energy.  There  needs  but  one  wise  man  in  a  company,  and 
all  are  wise,  so  rapid  is  the  contagion. 

Great  men  are  thus  a  collyrium  to  clear  our  eyes  from 
egotism,  and  enable  us  to  see  other  people  and  their  works. 
But  there  are  vices  and  follies  incident  to  whole  populations 
and  ages.  Men  resemble  their  contemporaries,  even  more 
than  their  progenitors.  It  is  observed  in  old  couples,  or 
in  persons  who  have  been  housemates  for  a  course  of  years, 
that  they  grow  alike;  and,  if  they  should  live  long  enough, 
we  should  not  be  able  to  know  them  apart.  Nature  ab 
hors  these  complaisances,  which  threaten  to  melt  the  world 
into  a  lump,  and  hastens  to  break  up  such  maudlin  agglu- 


USES   OF   GREAT   MEN  123 

tinations.  The  like  assimilation  goes  on  between  men  of 
one  town,  of  one  sect,  of  one  political  party;  and  the  ideas 
of  the  time  are  in  the  air,  and  infect  all  who  breathe  it. 
Viewed  from  any  high  point,  this  city  of  New  York,  yonder 
city  of  London,  the  western  civilization,  would  seem  a  bundle 
of  insanities.  We  keep  each  other  in  countenance,  and  ex 
asperate  by  emulation  the  frenzy  of  the  time.  The  shield 
against  the  stingings  of  conscience,  is  the  universal  prac 
tice,  or  our  contemporaries.  Again;  it  is  very  easy  to 
be  as  wise  and  good  as  your  companions.  We  learn  of  our 
contemporaries  what  they  know,  without  effort,  and  almost 
through  the  pores  of  the  skin.  We  catch  it  by  sympathy, 
or,  as  a  wife  arrives  at  the  intellectual  and  moral  ele 
vations  of  her  husband.  But  we  stop  where  they  stop. 
Very  hardly  can  we  take  another  step.  The  great,  or  such 
as  hold  of  nature,  and  transcend  fashions,  by  their  fidelity 
to  universal  ideas,  are  saviors  from  these  federal  errors,  and 
defend  us  from  our  contemporaries.  They  are  the  excep 
tions  which  we  want,  where  all  grows  alike.  A  foreign  great 
ness  is  the  antidote  for  cabalism. 

Thus  we  feed  on  genius,  and  refresh  ourselves  from  too 
much  conversation  with  our  mates,  and  exult  in  the  depth 
of  nature  in  that  direction  in  which  he  leads  us.  What  in 
demnification  is  one  great  man  for  populations  of  pigmies! 
Every  mother  wishes  one  son  a  genius,  though  all  the  rest 
should  be  mediocre.  But  a  new  danger  appears  in  the  excess 
of  influence  of  the  great  man.  His  attractions  warp  us  from 
our  place.  We  have  become  underlings  and  intellectual 
suicides.  Ah!  yonder  in  the  horizon  is  our  help: — other 
great  men,  new  qualities,  counterweights  and  checks  on  each 
other.  We  cloy  of  the  honey  of  each  peculiar  greatness. 
Every  hero  becomes  a  bore  at  last.  Perhaps  Voltaire  was 
not  bad-hearted,  yet  he  said  of  the  good  Jesus,  even,  "I 
pray  you,  let  me  never  hear  that  man's  name  again."  They 
cry  up  the  virtues  of  George  Washington, — "Damn  George 
Washington!"  is  the  poor  Jacobin's  whole  speech  and  con 
futation.  But  it  is  human  nature's  indispensible  defence. 
The  centripetence  augments  the  centrifugence.  We  balance 
one  man  with  his  opposite,  and  the  health  of  the  state  de- 


124  USES   OF   GREAT   MEN 

pends  on  the  see-saw. 

There  is,  however,  a  speedy  limit  to  the  use  of  heroes. 
Every  genius  is  defended  from  approach  by  quantities  of 
availableness.  They  are  very  attractive,  and  seem  at  a 
distance  our  own:  but  we  are  hindered  on  all  sides  from  ap 
proach.  The  more  we  are  drawn,  the  more  we  are  repelled. 
There  is  something  not  solid  in  the  good  that  is  done  for  us. 
The  best  discovery  the  discoverer  makes  for  himself.  It 
has  something  unreal  for  his  companion,  until  he  too  has  sub 
stantiated  it.  It  seems  as  if  the  Deity  dressed  each  soul  which 
he  sends  into  nature  in  certain  virtues  and  powers  not  com 
municable  to  other  men,  and,  sending  it  to  perform  one  more 
turn  through  the  circle  of  beings,  wrote  "Not  transferable," 
and  "Good  for  this  trip  only,"  on  these  garments  of  the  soul. 
There  is  somewhat  deceptive  about  the  intercourse  of  minds. 
The  boundaries  are  invisible,  but  they  are  never  crossed. 
There  is  such  good  will  to  impart,  and  such  good  will  to 
receive,  that  each  threatens  to  become  the  other;  but  the  law 
of  individuality  collects  its  secret  strength :  you  are  you,  and 
I  am  I,  and  so  we  remain. 

For  Nature  wishes  every  thing  to  remain  itself;  and, 
whilst  every  individual  strives  to  grow  and  exclude,  and  to 
exclude  and  grow,  to  the  extremities  of  the  universe,  and  to 
impose  the  law  of  its  being  on  every  other  creature,  Nature 
steadily  aims  to  protect  each  against  every  other.  Each 
is  self-defended.  Nothing  is  more  marked  than  the  power 
by  which  individuals  are  guarded  from  individuals,  in  a 
world  where  every  benefactor  becomes  so  easily  a  malefactor, 
only  by  continuation  of  his  activity  into  places  where  it  is 
not  due;  where  children  seem  so  much  at  the  mercy  of  their 
foolish  parents,  and  where  almost  all  men  are  too  social  and 
interfering.  We  rightly  speak  of  the  guardian  angels  of 
children.  How  superior  in  their  security  from  infusions  of 
evil  persons,  from  vulgarity  and  second  thought!  They 
shed  their  own  abundant  beauty  on  the  objects  they  behold. 
Therefore,  they  are  not  at  the  mercy  of  such  poor  educators 
as  we  adults.  If  we  huff  and  chide  them,  they  soon  come  not 
to  mind  it,  and  get  a  self-reliance;  and  if  \ve  indulge  them  to 
folly,  they  learn  the  limitation  elsewhere. 


USES  OF  GREAT  MEN  125 

We  need  not  fear  excessive  influence.  A  more  generous 
trust  is  permitted.  Serve  the  great.  Stick  at  no  humil 
iation.  Grudge  no  office  thou  canst  render.  Be  the  limb  of 
their  body,  the  breath  of  their  mouth.  Compromise  thy 
egotism.  Who  cares  for  that,  so  thou  gain  aught  wider  and 
nobler  ?  Never  mind  the  taunt  of  Boswellism :  the  devotion 
may  easily  be  greater  than  the  wretched  pride  which  is 
guarding  its  own  skirts.  Be  another:  not  thyself,  but  a 
Platonist;  not  a  soul,  but  a  Christian;  not  a  naturalist,  but 
a  Cartesian;  not  a  poet,  but  a  Shakspearian.  In  vain, 
the  wheels  of  tendency  will  not  stop,  nor  will  all  the  forces 
of  inertia,  fear,  or  of  love  itself,  hold  thee  there.  On,  and 
forever  onward!  The  microscope  observes  a  monad  or 
wheel-insect  among  the  infusories  circulating  in  water. 
Presently,  a  dot  appears  on  the  animal,  which  enlarges  to  a 
slit,  and  it  becomes  two  perfect  animals.  The  ever-proceeding 
detachment  appears  not  less  in  all  thought,  and  in  society. 
Children  think  they  cannot  live  without  their  parents.  But, 
long  before  they  are  aware  of  it,  the  black  dot  has  appeared, 
and  the  detachment  taken  place.  Any  accident  will  now 
reveal  to  them  their  independence. 

But  great  men: — the  word  is  injurious.  Is  there  caste? 
is  there  fate?  What  becomes  of  the  promise  to  virtue? 
The  thoughtful  youth  laments  the  superfcetation  of  nature. 
"Generous  and  handsome,"  he  says,  "is  your  hero;  but  look 
at  yonder  poor  Paddy,  whose  country  is  his  wheel-barrow; 
look  at  his  whole  nation  of  Paddies."  Why  are  the  masses, 
from  the  dawn  of  history  down,  food  for  knives  and  powder  ? 
The  idea  dignifies  a  few  leaders,  who  have  sentiment,  opin 
ion,  love,  self-devotion;  and  they  make  war  and  death 
sacred ;  — but  what  for  the  wretches  whom  they  hire  and  kill  ? 
The  cheapness  of  man  is  every  day's  tragedy.  It  is  as  real 
a  loss  that  others  should  be  low,  as  that  we  should  be  low; 
for  we  must  have  society. 

Is  it  a  reply  to  these  suggestions,  to  say,  society  is  a 
Pestalozzian  school:  all  are  teachers  and  pupils  in  turn. 
We  are  equally  served  by  receiving  and  by  imparting.  Men 
who  know  the  same  things,  are  not  long  the  best  company 
for  each  other.  But  bring  to  each  an  intelligent  person  of 


126  USES  OF  GREAT  MEN 

another  experience,  and  it  is  as  if  you  let  off  water  from  a 
lake,  by  cutting  a  lower  basin.  It  seems  a  mechanical  ad 
vantage,  and  great  benefit  it  is  to  each  speaker,  as  he  can 
now  paint  out  his  thought  to  himself.  We  pass  very  fast, 
in  our  personal  moods,  from  dignity  to  dependence.  And 
if  any  appear  never  to  assume  the  chair,  but  always  to  stand 
and  serve,  it  is  because  we  do  not  see  the  company  in  a 
sufficiently  long  period  for  the  whole  rotation  of  parts  to 
come  about.  As  to  what  we  call  the  masses,  and  common 
men; — there  are  no  common  men.  All  men  are  at  last 
of  a  size;  and  true  art  is  only  possible,  on  the  conviction  that 
every  talent  has  its  apotheosis  somewhere.  Fair  play, 
and  an  open  field,  and  freshest  laurels  to  all  who  have  won 
them!  But  heaven  reserves  an  equal  scope  for  every  crea 
ture.  Each  is  uneasy  until  he  has  produced  his  private 
ray  unto  the  concave  sphere,  and  beheld  his  talent  also 
in  its  last  nobility  and  exaltation. 

The  heroes  of  the  hour  are  relatively  great:  of  a  faster 
growth;  or  they  are  such,  in  whom,  at  the  moment  of  suc 
cess,  a  quality  is  ripe  which  is  then  in  request.  Other  days 
will  demand  other  qualities.  Some  rays  escape  the  common 
observer,  and  want  a  finely  adapted  eye.  Ask  the  great 
man  if  there  be  none  greater.  His  companions  are;  and  not 
the  less  great,  but  the  more,  that  society  cannot  see  them. 
Nature  never  sends  a  great  man  into  the  planet,  without 
confiding  the  secret  to  another  soul. 

One  gracious  fact  emerges  from  these  studies, — that  there 
is  true  ascension  in  our  love.  The  reputations  of  the 
nineteenth  century  will  one  day  be  quoted  to  prove  its  bar 
barism.  The  genius  of  humanity  is  the  real  subject  whose 
biography  is  written  in  our  annals.  We  must  infer  much, 
and  supply  many  chasms  in  the  record.  The  history  of 
the  universe  is  symptomatic,  and  life  is  mnemonical.  No 
man,  in  all  the  procession  of  famous  men,  is  reason  or  illum 
ination,  or  that  essence  we  were  looking  for;  but  is  an  ex 
hibition,  in  some  quarter,  of  new  possibilities.  Could  we 
one  day  complete  the  immense  figure  which  these  flagrant 
points  compose !  The  study  of  many  individuals  leads  us  to 
an  elemental  region  wherein  the  individual  is  lost,  or 


USES   OF   GREAT   MEN  127 

wherein  all  touch  by  their  summits.  Thought  and  feeling, 
that  break  out  there,  cannot  be  impounded  by  any  fence 
of  personality.  This  is  the  key  to  the  power  of  the  greatest 
men, — their  spirit  diffuses  itself.  A  new  quality  of  mind 
travels  by  night  and  by  day,  in  concentric  circles  from  its 
origin,  and  publishes  itself  by  unknown  methods:  the  union 
of  all  minds  appears  intimate:  what  gets  admission  to  one, 
cannot  be  kept  out  of  any  other:  the  smallest  acquisition 
of  truth  or  of  energy,  in  any  quarter,  is  so  much  good  to 
the  commonwealth  of  souls.  If  the  disparities  of  talent 
and  position  vanish,  when  the  individuals  are  seen  in  the 
duration  which  is  necessary  to  complete  the  career  of  each; 
even  more  swiftly  the  seeming  injustice  disappears,  when  we 
ascend  to  the  central  identity  of  all  the  individuals,  and  know 
that  they  are  made  of  the  same  substance  which  ordaineth 
and  doeth. 

The  genius  of  humanity  is  the  right  point  of  view  of  his 
tory.  The  qualities  abide;  the  men  who  exhibit  them  have 
now  more,  or  less,  and  pass  away;  the  qualities  remain  on 
another  brow.  No  experience  is  more  familiar.  Once  you 
saw  phoenixes:  they  are  gone;  the  world  is  not  therefore 
disenchanted.  The  vessels  on  which  you  read  sacred  em 
blems  turn  out  to  be  common  pottery;  but  the  sense  of 
the  pictures  is  sacred,  and  you  may  still  read  them  trans 
ferred  to  the  walls  of  the  world.  For  a  time,  our  teachers 
serve  us  personally,  as  metres  or  milestones  of  progress. 
Once  they  were  angels  of  knowledge,  and  their  figures  touched 
the  sky.  Then  we  drew  near,  saw  their  means,  culture, 
and  limits;  and  they  yielded  their  place  to  other  geniuses. 
Happy,  if  a  few  names  remain  so  high,  that  we  have  not  been 
able  to  read  them  nearer,  and  age  and  comparison  have 
not  robbed  them  of  a  ray.  But,  at  last,  we  shall  cease  to 
look  in  men  for  completeness,  and  shall  content  ourselves 
with  their  social  and  delegated  quality.  All  that  respects 
the  individual  is  temporary  and  prospective,  like  the  in 
dividual  himself,  who  is  ascending  out  of  his  limits,  into  a 
catholic  existence.  We  have  never  come  at  the  true  and 
best  benefit  of  any  genius,  so  long  as  we  believe  him  an  orig 
inal  force.  In  the  moment  when  he  ceases  to  help  us  as  a 


128  USES  OF  GREAT  MEN 

cause,  he  begins  to  help  us  move  as  an  effect.  Then  he 
appears  as  an  exponent  of  a  vaster  mind  and  will.  The 
opaque  self  becomes  transparent  with  the  light  of  the  First 
Cause. 

Yet,  within  the  limits  of  human  education  and  agency, 
we  may  say,  great  men  exist  that  there  may  be  greater  men. 
The  destiny  of  organized  nature  is  amelioration,  and  who  can 
tell  its  limits?  It  is  for  man  to  tame  the  chaos;  on  every 
side,  whilst  he  lives,  to  scatter  the  seeds  of  science  and  of 
song,  that  climate,  corn,  animals,  men,  may  be  milder,  and 
the  germs  of  love  and  benefit  may  be  multiplied. 


VI 

SPIRITUAL    LAWS 

WHEN  the  act  of  reflection  takes  place  in  the  mind,  when 
we  look  at  ourselves  in  the  light  of  thought,  we  discover  that 
our  life  is  embosomed  in  beauty.  Behind  us,  as  we  go,  all 
things  assume  pleasing  forms,  as  clouds  do  far  off.  Not  only 
things  familiar  and  state,  but  even  the  tragic  and  terrible 
are  comely,  as  they  take  their  place  in  the  pictures  of  mem 
ory.  The  river-bank,  the  weed  at  the  water-side,  the  old 
house,  the  foolish  person, — however  neglected  in  the  pass 
ing, — have  a  grace  in  the  past.  Even  the  corpse  that  has 
lain  in  the  chambers  has  added  a  solemn  ornament  to  the 
house.  The_  soul  will  not  know^ther^dMormityj prjmin. 
If  in  the  hours  of  clear  reason  we  shouldspeak  the  Severest 
truth,  we  should  say,  that  we  had  never  made  a  sacrifice. 
In  these  hours  the  mind  seems  so  great,  that  nothing  can 
be  taken  from  us  that  seems  much.  All  loss,  all  pain  is  { 
particular:  the  universe  remains  to  the  heart  unhurt.  Dis 
tress  never,  trifles  never  abate  our  trust.  No  man  ever 
stated  his  griefs  as  lightly  as  he  might.  Allow  for  ex 
aggeration  in  the  most  patient  and  sorely  ridden  hack  that 
ever  was  driven.  For  it  is  only  the  finite  that  has  wrought 
and  suffered;  the  infinite  lies  stretched  in  smiling  repose. 
i  The  intellectual  life  may  be  kept  clean  and  healthful, 
yif  man  will  live  the  life  of  nature,  and  not  import  into  his 
mind  difficulties  which  are  none  of  his.  No  man  need  be 
perplexed  in  his  speculations.  Let  him  do  and  say  what 
strictly  belongs  to  him,  and,  though  very  ignorant  of  books, 
his  nature  shall  not  yield  him  any  intellectual  obstructions 
and  doubts.  Our  young  people  are  diseased  with  the 
theological  problems  of  original  sin,  origin  of  evil,  pre 
destination,  and  the  like.  These  never  presented  a  prac 
tical  difficulty  to  any  man, — never  darkened  across  any 

129 


130  SPIRITUAL  LAWS 

man's  road,  who  did  not  go  out  of  his  way  to  seek  them 
These  are  the  soul's  mumps  and  measles  and  whooping- 
coughs;  and  those  who  have  not  caught  them  cannot  describe 
their  health  or  prescribe  the  cure.  A  simple  mind  will  not 
know  these  enemies.  It  is  quite  another  thing  that  he  should 
be  able  to  give  account  of  his  faith,  and  expound  to  an 
other  theory  of  his  self-union  and  freedom.  This  requires 
rare  gifts.  Yet  without  this  self-knowledge,  there  may  be 
a  sylvan  strength  and  integrity  in  that  which  he  is.  "A 
few  strong  instincts  and  a  few  plain  rules"  suffice  us. 

My  will  never  gave  the  images  of  my  mind  the  rank  they 
now  take.  The  regular  course  of  studies,  the  years  of  aca 
demical  and  professional  education,  have  not  yielded  me 
better  facts  than  some  idle  books  under  the  bench  at  the 
Latin  school.  What  we  do  not  call  education  is  more  pre 
cious  than  that  which  we  call  so.  We  form  no  guess  -at 
the  time  of  receiving  a  thought,  of  its  comparative  value. 
And  education  often  wastes  its  effort  in  attempts  to  thwart 
and  baulk  this  natural  magnetism,  which  with  sure  dis 
crimination  selects  its  own. 

In  like  manner,  our  moral  nature  is  vitiated  by  any 
interference  of  our  will.  People  represent  virtue  as  a 
struggle,  and  take  to  themselves  great  airs  upon  their  attain 
ments;  and  the  question  is  everywhere  vexed,  when  a  noble 
nature  is  commended,  Whether  the  man  is  not  better  who 
strives  with  temptation  ?  But  there  is  no  merit  in  the  matter. 
Either  God  is  there,  or  he  is  not  there.  We  love  characters 
in  proportion  as  they  are  impulsive  and  spontaneous.  The 
less  a  man  thinks  or  knows  about  his  virtues  the  better  we 
like  him.  Timoleon's  victories  are  the  best  victories;  which 
ran  and  flowed  like  Homer's  verses,  Plutarch  said.  When 
we  see  a  soul  whose  acts  are  all  regal,  graceful  and  pleasant 
as  roses,  we  must  thank  God  that  such  things  can  be  and 
are,  and  not  turn  sourly  on  the  angel,  and  say,  "Crump  is 
a  better  man  with  his  grunting  resistance  to  all  his  native 
devils." 

-  Not  less  conspicuous  is  the  preponderance  of  nature  over 
will  in  all  practical  life.  There  is  less  intention  in  his 
tory  than  we  ascribe  to  it.  We  impute  deep-laid,  far 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS  131 

sighted  plans  to  Caesar  and  Napoleon;  but  the  best  of  their 
power  was 'in  nature,  not  in  them.  Men  of  an  extraordi 
nary  success,  in  their  honest  moments  have  always  sung,  "Not 
unto  us,  not  unto  us."  According  to  the  faith  of  their  times, 
they  have  built  altars  to  Fortune  or  to  Destiny,  or  to  St. 
Julian.  Their  success  lay  in  their  parallelism  to  the  course 
of  thought,  which  found  in  them  an  unobstructed  channel; 
and  the  wonders  of  which  they  were  the  visible  conductors 
seemed  to  the  eye  their  deed.  Did  the  wires  generate  the  gal 
vanism  ?  It  is  even  true  that  there  was  less  in  them  on  which 
they  could  reflect  than  in  another;  as  the  virtue  of  a  pipe  is 
to  be  smooth  and  hollow.  That  which  externally  seemed 
will  and  immovableness,  was  willingness  and  self-annihil 
ation.  Could  Shakspeare  give  a  theory  of  Shakspeare? 
Could  ever  a  man  of  prodigious  mathematical  genius  convey 
to  others  any  insight  into  his  methods?  If  he  could  com 
municate  that  secret,  instantly  it  would  lose  all  its  exagger 
ated  value,  blending  with  the  daylight  and  the  vital  energy, 
the  power  to  stand  and  to  go. 

The  lesson  is  forcibly  taught  by  the  observations,  that 
our  life  might  be  much  easier  and  simpler  than  we  make  it; 
that  the  world  might  be  a  happier  place  than  it  is;  that 
there  is  no  need  of  struggles,  convulsions,  and  despairs, 
of  the  wringing  of  the  hands  and  the  gnashing  of  the  teeth; 
that  we  miscreate  our  own  evils.  We  interfere  with  the  optim-* 
ism  of  nature;  for,  whenever  we  get  this  vantage-ground  of 
the  past,  or  of  a  wiser  mind  in  the  present,  we  are  able  to  dis 
cern  that  we  are  begirt  with  spiritual  laws  which  execute 
themselves. 

The  face  of  external  nature  teaches  the  same  lesson  with 
calm  superiority.  Nature  will  not  have  us  fret  and  fume. 
She  does  not  like  our  benevolence  or  our  learning,  much 
better  than  she  likes  our  frauds  and  wars.  When  we  come 
out  of  the  caucus,  or  the  bank,  or  the  Abolition-convention, 
or  the  Temperance-meeting,  or  the  Transcendental  club, 
into  the  fields  and  woods,  she  says  to  us,  "So  hot?  my  little 
sir." 

We  are  full  of  mechanical  actions.  We  must  needs  inter 
meddle,  and  have  things  in  our  own  way,  until  the  sacrifices 


132  SPIRITUAL  LAWS 

and  virtues  of  society  are  odious.  Love  should  make  joy;1 
but  our  benevolence  is  unhappy.  Our  Sunday-schools,  and 
churches,  and  pauper-societies,  are  yokes  to  the  neck.  We 
pain  ourselves  to  please  nobody.  There  are  natural  ways  of 
arriving  at  the  same  ends  at  which  these  aim,  but  do  not 
arrive.  Why  should  all  virtue  work  in  one  and  the  same 
way?  Why  should  all  give  dollars?  It  is  very  incon 
venient  to  us  country  folk,  and  we  do  not  think  any  good 
will  come  of  it.  We  have  not  dollars.  Merchants  have:  let 
them  give  them.  Farmers  will  give  corn.  Poets  will  sing. 
Women  will  sew.  Laborers  will  lend  a  hand.  The  children 
will  bring  flowers.  And  why  drag  this  dead  wreight  of  a 
Sunday-School  over  the  whole  Christendom?  It  is  natural 
and  beautiful  that  childhood  should  inquire,  and  maturity 
should  teach ;  but  it  is  time  enough  to  answer  questions  when 
they  are  asked.  Do  not  shut  up  the  young  people  against 
their  will  in  a  pew,  and  force  the  children  to  ask  them  ques 
tions  for  an  hour  against  their  will. 

If  we  look  wider,  things  are  all  alike;  laws,  and  letters, 
and  creeds,  and  modes  of  living,  seem  a  travesty  of  truth. 
Our  society  is  encumbered  by  ponderous  machinery,  fcvhich 
resembles  the  endless  aqueducts  which  the  Romans  built 
over  hill  and  dale,  and  which  are  superseded  by  the  discovery 
of  the  law  that  water  rises  to  the  level  of  its  source.  It 
is  a  Chinese  wall,  which  any  nimble  Tartar  can  leap  over. 
It  is  a  standing  army,  not  so  good  as  a  peace.  It  is  a  grad 
uated,  titled,  richly  appointed  Empire,  quite  superfluous 
when  Town-meetings  are  found  to  answer  just  as  well. 

Let  us  draw  a  lesson  from  nature,  which  always  works  by 
short  ways.  When  the  fruit  is  ripe,  it  falls.  When  the 
fruit  is  despatched,  the  leaf  falls.  The  circuit  of  the  waters 
is  mere  falling.  The  walking  of  man  and  all  animals  is  a 
falling  forward.  All  our  manual  labor  and  works  of  strength, 
as  prying,  splitting,  digging,  rowing,  and  so  forth,  are  done 
by  dint  of  continual  falling;  and  the  globe,  earth,  moon, 
comet,  sun,  star,  fall  forever  and  ever. 

The  simplicity  of  the  universe  is  very  different  from  the 
simplicity  of  a  machine.  He  who  sees  moral  nature  out 
and  out,  and  thoroughly  knows  how  knowledge  is  acquired 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS  133 

and  character  formed,  is  a  pedant.  The  simplicity  of  nature 
is  not  that  which  may  easily  be  read,  but  is  inexhaustible. 
The  last  analysis  can  no  wise  be  made.  We  judge  of  a 
man's  wisdom  by  his  hope,  knowing  that  the  perception  of 
the  inexhaustibleness  of  nature  is  an  immortal  youth.  The 
wild  fertility  of  nature  is  felt  in  comparing  our  rigid  names 
and  reputations  with  our  fluid  consciousness.  We  pass  in 
the  world  for  sects  and  schools,  for  erudition  and  piety;  and 
we  are  all  the  time  jejune  babes.  One  sees  very  well  how 
Pyrrhonism  grew  up.  Every  man  sees  that  he  is  that 
middle  point  wrhereof  every  thing  may  be  affirmed  and  de 
nied  with  equal  reason.  He  is  old,  he  is  young,  he  is  very 
wise,  he  is  altogether  ignorant.  He  hears  and  feels  what 
you  say  of  the  seraphim  and  of  the  tin-pedlar.  There  is 
no  permanent  wise  man,  except  in  the  figment  of  the  stoics. 
We  side  with  the  hero,  as  we  read  or  paint,  against  the 
coward  and  the  robber;  but  we  have  been  ourselves  that 
coward  and  robber,  and  shall  be  again,  not  in  the  low  circum 
stance,  but  in  comparison  with  the  grandeurs  possible  to 
the  soul. 

A  little  consideration  of  what  takes  place  around  us 
every  day  would  show  us  that  a  higher  law  than  tV^t  nL. 
our  will  regulates  events ;  that  our  painful  labors  are  very  un- 
necessary,  and  altogether  fruitless;  that  only  in  our  easy, 
simple,  spontaneous  action  are  we  strong,  and  by  contenting 
ourselves  with  obedience  we  become  divine.  Belief  and 
love, — a  believing  love  will  relieve  us  of  a  vast  load  of  care. 
0  my  brothers,  God  exists.  There  is  a  soul  at  the  center 
of  nature,  and  over  the  will  of  every  man,  so  that  none  of 
us  can  wrong  the  universe.  It  has  so  infused  its  strong  en 
chantment  into  nature,  that  we  prosper  when  we  accept  its 
advice;  and  when  we  struggle  to  wound  its  creatures,  our 
hands  are  glued  to  our  sides,  or  they  beat  our  own  breasts. 
The  whole  course  of  things  goes  to  teach  us  faith.  We  need 
only  obey.  There  is  guidance  for  each  of  us,  and  by  lowly 
listening  we  shall  hear  the  right  word.  Why  need  you  choose 
so  painfully  your  place,  and  occupation,  and  associates,  and 
modes  of  action  and  of  entertainment?  Certainly  there 
is  a  possible  right  for  you,  that  precludes  the  need  of  bal- 

• 


134  SPIRITUAL   LAWS 

ance  and  wilful  election.  For  you  there  is  a  reality,  a  fit 
place  and  congenial  duties.  Place  yourself  in  the  middle 
of  the  stream  of  power  and  wisdom  which  flows  into  you  as 
life,  place  yourself  in  the  full  center  of  that  flood,  then  you 
are  without  effort  impelled  to  truth,  to  right,  and  a  perfect 
contentment.  Then  you  put  all  gainsayers  in  the  wrong. 
Then  you  are  the  world,  the  measure  of  right,  of  truth,  of 
beauty.  If  we  will  not  be  marplots  with  our  miserable  in 
terferences,  the  work,  the  society,  letters,  arts,  science,  re 
ligion  of  men,  would  go  on  far  better  than  now;  and  the 
Heaven  predicted  from  the  beginning  of  the  world,  and  still 
predicted  from  the  bottom  of  the  heart,  would  organize 
itself,  as  do  now  the  rose  and  the  air  and  the  sun. 

I  say,  do  not  choose;  but  that  is  a  figure  of  speech  by 
which  I  would  distinguish  what  is  commonly  called  choice 
among  men,  and  which  is  a  partial  act,  the  choice  of  the 
hands,  of  the  eye,  of  the  appetites,  and  not  a  whole  act  of 
the  man.  But  that  which  I  call  right  or  goodness,  is  the 
choice  of  my  constitution;  and  that  which  I  call  heaven, 
and  inwardly  aspire  after,  is  the  state  or  circumstance 
desirable  to  my  constitution;  and  the  action  which  I  in 
all  my  years  tend  to  do,  is  the  work  for  my  faculties.  We 
must  hold  a  man  amenable  to  reason  for  the  choice  of  his 
daily  craft  or  profession.  It  is  not  an  excuse  any  longer  for 
his  deeds  that  they  are  the  custom  of  his  trade.  What  busi 
ness  has  he  with  an  evil  trade  ?  Has  he  not  a  calling  in  his 
character? 

Each  man  has  his  own  vocation.  The  talent  is  the  call. 
There  is  one  direction  in  which  all  space  is  open  to  him. 
He  has  faculties  silently  inviting  him  thither  to  endless  ex 
ertion.  He  is  like  a  ship  in  a  river;  he  runs  against  ob 
structions  on  every  side  but  one;  on  that  side,  all  obstruc 
tion  is  taken  away,  and  he  sweeps  serenely  over  God's 
depths  into  an  infinite  sea.  This  talent  and  this  call  depend 
on  his  organization,  or  the  mode  in  which  the  general  soul 
incarnates  itself  in  him.  He  inclines  to  do  something  which 
is  easy  to  him,  and  good  when  it  is  done,  but  which  no  other 
man  can  do.  He  has  no  rival.  For  the  moro  truly  he  con 
sults  his  own  powers,  the  more  difference  will  his  work  ex- 


SPIRITUAL   LAWS^  135 

hibit  from  the  work  of  any  other.  When  he  is  true  and 
faithful,  his  ambition  is  exactly  proportioned  to  his  powers. 
The  height  of  the  pinnacle  is  determined  by  the  breadth  of 
the  base.  Every  man  has  this  call  of  the  power  to  do  some 
what  unique,  and  no  man  has  any  other  call.  The  pre 
tence  that  he  has  another  call,  a  summons  by  name  and  per 
sonal  election  and  outward  "signs  that  mark  him  extraor 
dinary,  and  not  in  the  roll  of  common  men,"  is  fanaticism, 
and  betrays  obtuseness  to  perceive  that  there  is  one  mind  in 
all  the  individuals,  and  no  respect  of  persons  therein. 

By  doing  his  work,  he  makes  the  need  felt  which  he  can 
supply.  He  creates  the  taste  by  which  he  is  enjoyed. 
He  provokes  the  wants  to  which  he  can  minister.  By 
doing  his  own  work,  he  unfolds  himself.  It  is  fhe  vice 
of  our  public  speaking,  that  it  has  not  abandonment. 
Somewhere,  not  only  every  orator,  but  every  man,  should 
let  out  all  the  length  of  all  the  reins;  should  find  or  make  a 
frank  and  hearty  expression  of  what  force  and  meaning  is 
in  him.  The  common  experience  is,  that  the  man  fits  him 
self  as  well  as  he  can  to  the  customary  details  of  that  work 
or  trade  he  falls  into,  and  tends  it  as  a  dog  turns  a  spit. 
Then  is  he  a  part  of  the  machine  he  moves;  the  man  is  lost. 
Until  he  can  manage  to  communicate  himself  to  others  in 
his  full  stature  and  proportion  as  a  wise  and  good  man,  he 
does  not  yet  find  his  vocation.  He  must  find  in  that  an 
outlet  for  his  character,  so  that  he  may  justify  himself  to 
their  eyes  for  doing  what  he  does.  If  the  labor  is  trivial, 
let  him  by  his  thinking  and  character  make  it  liberal. 
Whatever  he  knows  and  thinks,  whatever  in  his  apprehen 
sion  is  worth  doing,  that  let  him  communicate,  or  men  will 
never  know  and  honor  him  aright.  Foolish,  whenever  you/ 
take  the  meanness  and  formality  of  that  thing  you  do, 
instead  of  converting  it  into  the  obedient  spiracle  of  your 
character  and  aims. 

We  like  only  such  actions  as  have  already  long  had  the 
praise  of  men;  and  do  not  perceive  that  any  thing  man 
can  do  may  be  divinely  done.  We  think  greatness  entailed 
or  organized  in  some  places  or  duties,  in  certain  offices  or 
occasions;  and  do  not  see  that  Paganini  can  extract  rap- 


136  SPIRITUAL  LAWS 

ture  from  a  catgut,  and  Eulenstein  from  a  jews-harp,  and 
a  nimble-fingered  lad  out  of  shreds  of  paper  with  his  scissors, 
and  Landseer  out  of  swine,  and  the  hero  out  of  the  pitiful 
habitation  and  company  in  which  he  was  hidden.  What 
we  call  obscure  condition  or  vulgar  society,  is  that  condition 
and  society  whose  poetry  is  riot  yet  written,  but  which  you 
shall  presently  make  as  enviable  and  renowned  as  any. 
Accept  your  genius,  and  say  what  you  think.  In  our  esti 
mates,  let  us  take  a  lesson  from  kings.  The  parts  of  hos 
pitality,  the  connexion  of  families,  the  impressiveness  of 
death,  and  a  thousand  other  things,  royalty  makes  its  own 
estimate  of,  and  a  royal  mind  will.  To  make  habitually  a 
new  estimate, — that  is  elevation. 

What*a  man  does,  that  he  has.  What  has  he  to  do  with 
hope  or  fear?  In  himself  is  his  might.  Let  him  regard  no 
good  as  solid  but  that  which  is  in  his  nature,  and  which  must 
grow  out  of  him  as  long  as  he  exists.  The  goods  of  fortune 
may  come  and  go  like  summer  leaves;  let  him  play  with 
them  and  scatter  them  on  every  wind,  as  the  momentary 
signs  of  his  infinite  productiveness. 

He  may  have  his  own.  A  man's  genius,  the  quality  that 
differences  him  from  every  other,  the  susceptibility  to  one 
class  of  influences,  the  selection  of  what  is  fit  for  him,  the 
rejection  of  what  is  unfit,  determines  for  him  the  character 
of  the  universe.  As  a  man  thinketh,  so  is  he;  and  as  a  man 
chooseth,  so  is  he  and  so  is  nature.  A  man  is  a  method, 
a  progressive  arrangement;  a  selecting  principle,  gathering 
his  like  to  him,  wherever  he  goes.  He  takes  only  his  own, 
out  of  the  multiplicity  that  sweeps  and  circles  round  him. 
He  is  like  one  of  those  booms  which  are  set  out  from  the 
shore  on  rivers  to  catch  drift-wood,  or  like  the  loadstone 
amongst  splinters  of  steel. 

Those  facts,  words,  persons,  which  dwell  in  his  memory 
without  his  being  able  to  say  why,  remain,  because  they 
have  a  relation  to  him  not  less  real  for  being  as  yet  un- 
apprehended.  They  are  symbols  of  value  to  him,  as  they 
can  interpret  parts  of  his  consciousness  which  he  would 
vainly  seek  words  for  in  the  conventional  images  of  books 
and  other  minds.  What  attracts  my  attention  shall  have 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS  137 

it;  as  I  will  go  to  the  man  who  knocks  at  my  door,  whilst  a 
thousand  persons,  as  worthy,  go  by  it,  to  whom  I  give  no 
regard.  It  is  enough  that  these  particulars  speak  to  me. 
A  few  anecdotes,  a  few  traits  of  character,  manners,  face,  a 
few  incidents,  have  an  emphasis  in  your  memory  out  of  all 
proportion  to  their  apparent  significance,  if  you  measure 
them  by  the  ordinary  standards.  They  relate  to  your 
gift.  Let  them  have  their  weight,and  do  not  reject  them, 
and  cast  about  for  illustration  and  facts  more  usual  in  liter 
ature.  Respect  them,  for  they  have  their  origin  in  deepest 
nature.  What  your  heart  thinks  great,  is  great.  The  soul's 
emphasis  is  always  right. 

Over  all  things  that  are  agreeable  to  his  nature  and  genius 
the  man  has  the  highest  right.  Everywhere  he  may  take 
what  belongs  to  his  spiritual  estate,  nor  can  he  take  any 
thing  else,  though  all  doors  were  open,  nor  can  all  the  force 
of  men  hinder  him  from  taking  so  much.  It  is  vain  to 
attempt  to  keep  a  secret  from  one  who  has  a  right  to  know 
it.  It  will  tell  itself.  That  mood  into  which  a  friend  can 
bring  us  is  his  dominion  over  us.  To  the  thoughts  of  that 
state  of  mind  he  has  a  right.  All  the  secrets  of  that  state 
of  mind  he  can  compel.  This  is  a  law  which  statesmen  use 
in  practice.  All  the  terrors  of  the  French  Republic,  which 
held  Austria  in  awe.  were  unable  to  command  her  di 
plomacy.  But  Napoleon  sent  to  Vienna  M.  de  Narbonne, 
one  of  the  old  noblesse,  with  the  morals,  manners,  and  name 
of  that  interest,  saying  that  it  was  indispensible  to  send 
to  the  old  aristocracy  of  Europe  men  of  the  same  connexion, 
which,  in  fact,  constitutes  a  sort  of  freemasonry.  M. 
Narbonne  in  less  than  a  fortnight  penetrated  all  the  secrets 
of  the  Imperial  Cabinet. 

A  mutual  understanding  is  ever  the  firmest  chain.  Noth 
ing  seems  so  easy  as  to  speak  and  to  be  understood. 
Yet  a  man  may  come  to  find  that  the  strongest  of  defences 
and  of  ties, — that  he  has  been  understood;  and  he  who  has 
received  an  opinion  may  come  to  find  it  the  most  incon 
venient  of  bonds. 

If  a  teacher  have  any  opinion  which  he  wishes  to  conceal, 
his  pupils  will  become  as  fully  indoctrinated  into  that  as  into 


138  SPIRITUAL   LAWS 

any  which  he  publishes.  If  you  pour  water  into  a  vessel 
twisted  into  coils  and  angles,  it  is  vain  to  say,  I  will  pour 
it  only  into  this  or  that; — it  will  find  its  own  level  in  all. 
Men  feel  and  act  the  consequences  of  your  doctrine,  without 
being  able  to  show  how  they  follow.  Show  us  an  arc  of 
the  curve,  and  a  good  mathematician  will  find  out  the  whole 
figure.  We  are  always  reasoning  from  the  seen  to  the  un 
seen.  Hence  the  perfect  intelligence  that  subsists  between 
wise  men  of  remote  ages.  A  man  cannot  bury  his  meanings 
so  deep  in  his  book,  but  time  and  like-minded  men  will 
find  them.  Plato  had  a  secret  doctrine,  had  he?  What 
secret  can  he  conceal  from  the  eyes  of  Bacon?  of  Mon 
taigne?  Kant?  Therefore  Aristotle  said  of  his  works, 
"they  are  published  and  not  published." 

No  man  can  learn  what  he  has  not  preparation  for  learn 
ing,  however  near  to  his  eyes  is  the  object.  A  chemist  rnay 
tell  his  most  precious  secrets  to  a  carpenter,  and  he  shall 
be  never  the  wiser, — the  secrets  he  would  not  utter  to  a 
chemist  for  an  estate.  God  screens  us  evermore  from  pre 
mature  ideas.  Our  eyes  are  holden  that  we  cannot  see 
things  that  stare  us  in  the  face,  until  the  hour  arrives  when 
the  mind  is  ripened, — then  we  behold  them,  and  the  time 
when  we  saw  them  not  is  like  a  dream. 

Not  in  nature  but  in  man  is  all  the  beauty  and  worth  he 
sees.  The  world  is  very  empty,  and  is  indebted  to  this 
gilding,  exalting  soul  for  all  its  pride.  "Earth  fills  her 
lap  with  splendors"  not  her  own.  The  vale  of  Tempe, 
Tivoli,  and  Rome,  are  earth  and  water,  rocks  and  sky. 
There  are  as  good  earth  and  water  in  a  thousand  places, 
yet  how  unaffecting! 

People  are  not  the  better  for  the  sun  and  moon,  the  hor 
izon  and  the  trees;  as  it  is  not  observed  that  the  keepers  of 
Roman  galleries,  or  the  valets  of  painters,  have  any  ele 
vation  of  thought,  or  that  librarians  are  wiser  men  than 
others.  There  are  graces  in  the  demeanor  of  a  polished  and 
noble  person,  which  are  lost  upon  the  eye  of  a  churl.  These 
are  like  the  stars  whose  light  has  not  yet  reached  us. 

He  may  see  what  he  maketh.  Our  dreams  are  the  sequel 
of  our  waking  knowledge.  The  visions  of  the  night  always 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS  139 

bear  some  proportion  to  the  visions  of  the  day.  Hideous 
dreams  are  only  exaggerations  of  the  sins  of  the  day.  We 
see  our  own  evil  affections  embodied  in  bad  physiognomies. 
On  the  Alps,  the  traveller  sometimes  sees  his  own  shadow 
^nagnified  to  a  giant,  so  that  every  gesture  of  his  hand  is 
terrific.  "My  children,"  said  an  old  man  to  his  boys  scared 
by  a  figure  in  the  dark  entry,  "my  children,  you  will  never 
see  anything  worse  than  yourselves."  As  in  dreams,  so  in 
the  scarcely  less  fluid  events  of  the  world,  every  man  sees 
himself  in  colossal,  without  knowing  that  it  is  himself 
that  he  sees.  The  good  which  he  sees,  compared  to  the 
evil  which  he  sees,  is  as  his  own  good  to  his  own  evil.  Every 
quality  of  his  mind  is  magnified  in  some  one  acquaintance, 
and  every  emotion  of  his  heart  in  some  one.  He  is  like  a 
quincunx  of  trees,  which  counts  five,  east,  west,  north,  or 
south;  or  an  initial,  medial,  and  terminal  acrostic.  And 
why  not?  He  cleaves  to  one  person,  and  avoids  another, 
according  to  their  likeness  or  unlikeness  to  himself,  truly 
seeking  himself  in  his  associates,  and  moreover  in  his  trade, 
and  habits,  and  gestures,  and  meats,  and  drinks;  and  comes 
at  last  to  be  faithfully  represented  by  every  view  you  take 
of  his  circumstances. 

He  may  read  what  he  writeth.  What  can  we  see  or  ac 
quire,  but  what  we  are?  You  have  seen  a  skilful  man 
reading  Virgil.  Well,  that  author  is  a  thousand  books  to  a 
thousand  persons.  Take  the  book  into  your  two  hands,  and 
read  your  eyes  out,  you  will  never  find  what  I  find.  If 
any  ingenious  reader  would  have  a  monopoly  of  the  wisdom 
or  delight  he  gets,  he  is  as  secure  now  the  book  is  Englished, 
as  if  it  were  imprisoned  in  the  Pelews  tongue.  It  is  with  a 
good  book  as  it  is  with  good  company.  Introduce  a  base 
person  among  gentlemen:  it  is  all  to  no  purpose:  he  is  not 
their  fellow.  Every  society  protects  itself.  The  company 
is  perfectly  safe,  and  he  is  not  one  of  them,  though  his  body 
is  in  the  room. 

What  avails  it  to  fight  with  the  eternal  laws  of  mind, 
which  adjust  the  relation  of  all  persons  to  each  other,  by 
the  mathematical  measure  of  their  havings  and  beings? 
Gertrude  is  enamored  of  Guy;  how  high,  how  aristocratic, 


140  SPIRITUAL  LAWS 

how  Roman  his  mien  and  manners!  to  live  with  him  were 
life  indeed:  and  no  purchase  is  too  great;  and  heaven  and 
earth  are  moved  to  that  end.  Well,  Gertrude  has  Guy :  but 
what  now  avails  how  high,  how  aristocratic,  how  Roman  his 
mien  and  manners,  if  his  heart  and  aims  are  in  the  senate, 
in  the  theatre,  and  in  the  billiard-room,  and  she  has  no  aims, 
no  conversation  that  can  enchant  her  graceful  lord? 

He  shall  have  his  own  society.  We  can  love  nothing  but 
nature.  The  most  wonderful  talents,  the  most  meritorious 
exertions  really  avail  very  little  with  us;  but  nearness  or 
likeness  of  nature, — how  beautiful  is  the  ease  of  its  victory ! 
Persons  approach  us  famous  for  their  beauty,  for  their 
accomplishments,  worthy  of  all  wonder  for  their  charms  and 
gifts:  they  dedicate  their  whole  skill  to  the  hour  and  the 
company,  with  very  imperfect  result.  To  be  sure,  it  would 
be  very  ungrateful  in  us  not  to  praise  them  very  loudly. 
Then,  when  all  is  done,  a  person  of  related  mind,  a  brother 

Nor  sister  by  nature,  comes  to  us  so  softly  and  easily,  so  nearly 
and  intimately,  as  if  it  were  the  blood  in  our  proper  veins, 
that  we  feel  as  if  some  one  was  gone,  instead  of  another 
having  come:  we  are  utterly  relieved  and  refreshed:  it  is  a 
sort  of  joyful  solitude.  We  foolishly  think,  in  our  days  of 
sin,  that  we  must  court  friends  by  compliance  to  the  customs 
of  society,  to  its  dress,  its  breeding  and  its  estimates.  But 
later,  if  we  are  so  happy,  we  learn  that  only  that  soul  can 
be  my  friend,  which  I  encounter  on  the  line  of  my  own 
march,  that  soul  to  which  I  do  not  decline,  and  which  does 
not  decline  to  me,  but,  native  of  the  same  celestial  lat 
itude,  repeats  in  its  own  all  my  experience.  The  scholar  and 
the  prophet  forget  themselves,  and  ape  the  customs  and 
costumes  of  the  man  of  the  world,  to  deserve  the  smile 
of  beauty.  He  is  a  fool,  and  follows  some  giddy  girl,  and 
not  with  religious  ennobling  passion  a  woman  with  all  that 
is  serene,  oracular,  and  beautiful  in  her  soul  Let  him  be 
great,  and  love  shall  follow  him.  Nothing  is  more  deeply 
punished  than  the  neglect  of  the  affinities  by  which  alone 
society  should  be  formed,  and  the  insane  levity  of  choosing 
associates  by  other's  eyes. 
He  may  set  his  own  rate.  It  is  an  universal  maxim. 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS  141 

worthy  of  all  acceptation,  that  a  man  may  have  that  allow 
ance  he  takes.  Take  the  place  and  attitude  to  which  you  see 
your  unquestionable  right,  and  all  men  acquiesce.  The  world 
must  be  just.  It  always  leaves  every  man  with  profound 
unconcern  to  set  his  own  rate.  Hero  or  driveller,  it  meddles 
not  in  the  matter.  It  will  certainly  accept  your  own 
measure  of  your  doing  and  being,  whether  you  sneak  about 
and  deny  your  own  name,  or  whether  you  see  your  work 
produced  to  the  concave  sphere  of  the  heavens,  one  with  the 
revolution  of  the  stars. 

The  same  reality  pervades  all  teaching.  The  man  may 
teach  by  doing,  and  not  otherwise.  If  he  can  communicate 
himself,  he  can  teach,  but  not  by  words.  He  teaches  who 
gives,  and  he  learns  who  receives.  There  is  no  teaching 
until  the  pupil  is  brought  into  the  same  state  or  principle 
in  which  you  are;  a  transfusion  takes  place:  he  is  you,  and 
you  are  he;  then  is  a  teaching,  and  by  no  unfriendly  chance 
or  bad  company  can  he  ever  quite  lose  the  benefit.  But 
your  propositions  run  out  of  one  ear  as  they  ran  in  at  the 
other.  We  see  it  advertised  that  Mr.  Grand  will  deliver 
an  oration  on  the  fourth  of  July,  and  Mr.  Hand  before  the 
Mechanics'  Association,  and  we  do  not  go  thither,  because 
we  know  that  these  gentlemen  will  not  communicate  theif 
own  character  and  being  to  the  audience.  If  we  had 
reason  to  expect  such  a  communication,  we  should  go 
through  all  inconvenience  and  opposition.  The  sick  would 
be  carried  in  litters.  But  a  public  oration  is  an  escapade,  a 
non-committal,  an  apology,  a  gag,  and  not  a  communication, 
not  a  speech,  not  a  man. 

A  like  Nemesis  presides  over  all  intellectual  works.  We 
have  yet  to  learn  that  the  thing  uttered  in  words  is  not 
therefore  affirmed.  It  must  affirm  itself,  or  no  forms  of 
grammar  and  no  plausibility  can  give  it  evidence,  and 
no  array  of  arguments.  The  sentence  must  also  contain 
its  own  apology  for  being  spoken. 

The  effect  of  any  writing  on  the  public  mind  is  mathemat 
ically  measurable  by  its  depth  of  thought.  How  much  water 
does  it  draw?  If  it  awaken  you  to  think;  if  it  lift  you  from 
your  feet  with  the  great  voice  of  eloquence;  then  the  effect 
is  to  be  wide,  slow,  permanent,  over  the  minds  nf  mprr  if 


142  SPIRITUAL  LAWS 

the  pages  instruct  you  not,  they  will  die  like  flies  in  the  hour. 
The  way  to  speak  and  write  what  shall  not  go  out  of  fashion, 
is  to  speak  and  write  sincerely.  The  argument  which  has 
not  power  to  reach  my  own  practice,  I  may  well  doubt  will 
fail  to  reach  yours.  But  take  Sidney's  maxim:  "Look  in 
thy  heart,  and  write."  He  that  writes  to  himself  writes  to 
an  eternal  public.  That  statement  only  is  fit  to  be  made 
public  which  you  have  come  at  in  attempting  to  satisfy 
your  own  curiosity.  The  writer  who  takes  his  subject  from 
his  ear  and  not  from  his  heart,  should  know  that  he  has  lost 
as  much  as  he  seems  to  have  gained;  and  when  the  empty 
book  has  gathered  all  its  praise,  and  half  the  people  say — 
"What  poetry!  what  genius!"  it  still  needs  fuel  to  make  fire. 
That  only  profits  which  is  profitable.  Life  alone  can  im 
part  life;  and  though  we  should  burst,  we  can  only  be  valued 
as  we  make  ourselves  valuable.  There  is  no  luck  in  literary 
reputation.  They  who  make  up  the  final  verdict  upon  every 
book,  are  not  the  partial  and  noisy  readers  of  the  hour  when 
it  appears;  but  a  court  as  of  angels,  a  public  not  to  be 
bribed,  not  to  be  entreated,  and  not  to  be  overawed,  decides 
upon  every  man's  title  to  fame.  Only  those  books  come 
down  which  deserve  to  last.  All  the  gilt  edges  and  vellum 
and  morocco,  all  the  presentation-copies  to  all  the  libraries, 
will  not  preserve  a  book  in  circulation  beyond  its  intrinsic 
date.  It  must  go  with  all  Walpole's  Royal  and  Noble 
Authors  to  its  fate.  Blackmore,  Kotzebue,  or  Pollok,  may 
endure  for  a  night,  but  Moses  and  Homer  stand  forever. 
There  are  not  in  the  world  at  any  one  time  more  than  a 
dozen  persons  who  read  and  understand  Plato: — never 
enough  to  pay  for  an  edition  of  his  works;  yet  to  every 
generation  these  come  duly  down,  for  the  sake  of  those  few 
persons,  as  if  God  brought  them  in  his  hand.  "No  book," 
said  Bentley,  "was  ever  written  down  by  any  but  itself." 
The  permanence  of  all  books  is  fixed  by  no  effort  friendly 
or  hostile,  but  by  their  own  specific  gravity,  or  the  intrinsic 
importance  of  their  contents  to  the  constant  mind  of  man. 
"Do  not  trouble  yourself  too  much  about  the  light  on  your 
statue,"  said  Michael  Angelo  to  the  young  sculptor;  "the 
light  of  the  public  square  will  test  its  value." 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS  143 

\In  like  manner  the  effect  of  every  action  is  measured  by 
the  depth  of  the  sentiment  from  which  it  proceeds.  The 
great  man  knew  not  that  he  was  great.  It  took  a  century 
or  two  for  that  fact  to  appear.  What  he  did,  he  did  because 
he  must;  he  used  no  election;  it  was  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world,  and  grew  out  of  the  circumstances  of  the  mo 
ment.  But  now,  every  thing  he  did,  even  to  the  lifting  of 
his  finger,  or  the  eating  of  bread,  looks  large,  all-related,  and 
is  called  an  institution. 

These  are  the  demonstrations,  in  a  few  particulars,  of 
the  genius  of  nature :  they  show  the  direction  of  the  stream. 
But  the  stream  is  blood;  every  drop  is  alive.  Truth  has 
not  single  victories;  all  things  are  its  organs,  not  only  dust 
and  stones,  but  errors  and  lies.  The  laws  of  disease,  physi 
cians  say,  are  as  beautiful  as  the  laws  of  health.  Our  phil 
osophy  is  affirmative,  and  readily  accepts  the  testimony  of 
negative  facts,  as  every  shadow  points  to  the  sun.  By  a 
divine  necessity,  every  fact  in  nature  is  constrained  to  offer 
its  testimony. 

Human  character  does  evermore  publish  itself.  It  will 
not  be  concealed.  It  hates  darkness, — it  rushes  into  light. 
The  most  fugitive  deed  and  word,  the  mere  air  of  doing  a 
thing,  the  intimated  purpose,  expresses  character.  If  you 
act,  you  show  character;  if  you  sit  still,  you  show  it;  if 
you  sleep,  you  show  it.  You  think  because  you  have  spoken 
nothing,  when  others  spoke,  and  have  given  no  opinion  on 
the  times,  on  the  church,  on  slavery,  on  college,  on  parties 
and  persons,  that  your  verdict  is  still  expected  with  curios 
ity  as  a  reserved  wisdom.  Far  otherwise;  your  silence  an 
swers  very  loud.  You  have  no  oracle  to  utter,  and  your 
fellow  men  have  learned  that  you  cannot  help  them;  for 
oracles  speak.  Doth  not  wisdom  cry,  and  understanding 
put  forth  her  voice? 

Dreadful  limits  are  set  in  nature  to  the  powers  of  dis 
simulation.  Truth  tyrannizes  over  the  unwilling  members 
of  the  body.  Faces  never  lie,  it  is  said.  No  man  need  be 
deceived,  who  will  study  the  changes  of  expression.  When 
a  man  speaks  the  truth  in  the  spirit  of  truth,  his  eye  is  as 
clear  as  the  heavens.  When  he  has  base  ends,  and  speaks 


144  SPIRITUAL  LAWS 

falsely,  the  eye  is  muddy  and  sometimes  asquint. 

I  have  heard  an  experienced  counsellor  say,  that  he  feared 
never  the  effect  upon  the  jury  of  a  lawyer  who  does  not 
believe  in  his  heart  that  his  client  ought  to  have  a  verdict. 
If  he  does  not  believe  it,  his  unbelief  will  appear  to  the  jury, 
despite  all  his  protestations,  and  will  become  their  un 
belief.  This  is  that  law  whereby  a  work  of  art,  of  what 
ever  kind,  sets  us  in  the  same  state  of  mind  wherein  the 
artist  was  when  he  made  it. .  That  which  we  do  not  believe, 
we  cannot  adequately  say,  though  we  may  repeat  the  words 
never  so  often.  It  was  this  conviction  which  Swedenborg 
expressed,  when  he  described  a  group  of  persons  in  the  spirit 
ual  world  endeavoring  in  vain  to  articulate  a  proposition 
which  they  did  not  believe :  but  they  could  not,  though  they 
twisted  and  folded  their  lips  even  to  indignation. 

A  man  passes  for  that  he  is  worth.  Very  idle  is  all 
curiosity  concerning  other  people's  estimate  of  us,  and 
idle  is  all  fear  of  remaining  unknown.  If  a  man  know  that 
he  can  do  anything, — that  he  can  do  it  better  than  any 
one  else, — he  has  a  pledge  of  the  acknowledgment  of  that 
fact  by  all  persons.  The  world  is  full  of  judgment-days, 
and  into  every  assembly  that  a  man  enters,  in  every  action 
he  attempts  he  is  gauged  and  stamped.  In  every  troop 
of  boys  that  whoop  and  run  in  each  yard  and  square,  a  new 
comer  is  as  well  and  accurately  weighed  in  the  balance,  in 
the  course  of  a  few  days,  and  stamped  with  his  right  number, 
as  if  he  had  undergone  a  formal  trial  of  his  strength,  speed, 
and  temper.  A  stranger  comes  from  a  distant  school,  with 
better  dress,  with  trinkets  in  his  pockets,  with  airs,  and  pre 
tension:  an  old  boy  sniffs  thereat,  and  says  to  himself, 
"It's  of  no  use:  we  shall  find  him  out  to-morrow."  "What 
hath  he  done?"  is  the  divine  question  which  searches  men, 
and  transpierces  every  false  reputation.  A  fop  may  sit  in 
any  chair  of  the  world,  nor  be  distinguished  for  his  hour  from 
Homer  and  Washington;  but  there  can  never  be  any  doubt 
concerning  the  respective  ability  of  human  beings,  when 
we  seek  the  truth.  Pretension  may  sit  still,  but  cannot  act. 
Pretension  never  feigned  an  act  of  real  greatness.  Pre 
tension  never  wrote  an  Iliad,  nor  drove  back  Xerxes,  nor 


SPIRITUAL   LAWS  145 

christianized  the  world,  nor  abolished  slavery. 

Always  as  much  virtue  as  there  is,  so  much  appears;  as 
much  goodness  as  there  is,  so  much  reverence  it  commands. 
All  the  devils  respect  virtue.  The  high,  the  generous,  the  •' 
self-devoted  sect  will  always  instruct  and  command  man 
kind.  Never  a  sincere  word  was  utterly  lost.  Never  a 
magnanimity  fell  to  the  ground.  Always  the  heart  of  man 
greets  and  accepts  it  unexpectedly.  A  man  passes  for  that 
he  is  worth.  What  he  is,  engraves  itself  on  his  face,  on  his 
form,  on  his  fortunes,  in  letters  of  light,  which  all  men  may 
read  but  himself.  Concealment  avails  him  nothing;  boast 
ing,  nothing.  There  is  confession  in  the  glances  of  our  eyes, 
in  our  smiles,  in  salutations,  and  the  grasp  of  hands.  His 
sin  bedaubs  him,  mars  all  his  good  impression.  Men  know 
not  why  they  do  not  trust  him;  but  they  do  not  trust  him. 
His  vice  glasses  his  eye,  demeans  his  cheek,  pinches  the  nose, 
sets  the  mark  of  the  beast  on  the  back  of  the  head,  and 
writes,  0  fool !  fool !  on  the  forehead  of  a  king. 

If  you  would  not  be  known  to  do  anything,  never  do  it. 
A  man  may  play  the  fool  in  the  drifts  of  a  desert,  but 
every  grain  of  sand  shall  seem  to  see.  He  may  be  a  solitary 
eater,  but  he  cannot  keep  his  foolish  counsel.  A  broken 
complexion,  a  swinish  look,  ungenerous  acts,  and  the  want 
of  due  knowledge, — all  blab.  Can  a  cook,  a  Chiffinch, 
an  lachimo,  be  mistaken  for  Zeno  or  Paul?  Confucius  ex 
claimed,  "How  can  a  man  be  concealed!  How  can  a  man 
be  concealed!" 

On  the  other  hand,  the  hero  fears  not,  that  if  he  with 
hold  the  avowal  of  a  just  and  brave  act,  it  will  go  unwit 
nessed  and  unloved.  One  knows  it, — himself, — and  is 
pledged  by  it  to  sweetness  of  peace,  and  to  nobleness  of  aim, 
which  will  prove  in  the  end  a  better  proclamation  of  it  than 
the  relating  of  the  incident.  Virtue  is  the  adherence  in 
action  to  the  nature  of  things,  and  the  nature  of  things 
makes  it  prevalent.  It  consists  in  a  perpetual  substitu 
tion  of  being  for  seeming,  and  with  sublime  propriety  God 
is  described  as  saying,  I  AM. 

The  lesson  which  all  these  observations  convey,  is,  JBe, 
and  not  seem.  Let  us  acquiesce.  Let  us  take  our  bloated  * 


146  SPIRITUAL  LAWS 

nothingness  out  of  the  path  of  the  divine  circuits.  Let  us 
unlearn  our  wisdom  of  the  world.  Let  us  lie  low  in  the 
Lord's  power,  and  learn  that  truth  alone  makes  rich  and 
great. 

If  you  visit  your  friend,  why  need  you  apologise  for  not 
having  visited  him,  and  waste  his  time  and  deface  your  own 
act?  Visit  him  now.  Let  him  feel  that  the  highest  love 
has  come  to  see  him,  in  thee  its  lowest  organ.  Or  why  need 
you  torment  yourself  and  friend  by  secret  self-reproaches 
that  you  have  not  assisted  him  or  complimented  him  with 
gifts  and  salutations  heretofore?  Be  a  gift  and  a  bene 
diction.  Shine  with  real  light,  and  not  with  the  borrowed 
reflections  of  gifts.  Common  men  are  apologies  for  men; 
they  bow  the  head,  they  excuse  themselves  with  prolix 
reasons,  they  accumulate  appearances,  because  the  sub 
stance  is  not. 

We  are  full  of  these  superstitions  of  sense,  the  worship  of 
magnitude.  God  loveth  not  size:  whale  and  minnow  are  of 
like  dimension.  But  we  call  the  poet  inactive,  because  he 
is  not  a  president,  a  merchant,  or  a  porter.  We  adore  an 
institution,  and  do  not  see  that  it  is  founded  on  a  thought 
which  we  have.  But  real  action  is  in  silent  moments.  The 
epochs  of  our  life  are  not  in  the  visible  facts  of  our  choice 
of  a  calling,  our  marriage,  our  acquisition  of  an  office,  and 
the  like;  but  in  a  silent  thought  by  the  way-side  as  we  walk; 
in  a  thought  which  revises  our  entire  manner  of  life,  and 
says,  "Thus  hast  thou  done,  but  it  were  better  thus."  And 
all  our  after  years,  like  menials,  do  serve  and  wait  on  this, 
and  according  to  their  ability  do  execute  its  will.  This 
revisal  or  correction  is  a  constant  force,  which,  as  a  tendency, 
reaches  through  our  lifetime.  The  object  of  the  man,  the 
aim  of  these  moments,  is  to  make  daylight  shine  through 
him,  to  suffer  the  law  to  traverse  his  whole  being  without 
obstruction,  so  that,  on  what  point  soever  of  his  doing  your 
eye  falls,  it  shall  report  truly  of  his  character,  whether  it 
be  his  diet,  his  house,  his  religious  forms,  his 'society,  his 
mirth,  his  vote,  his  opposition.  Now  he  is  not  homogeneous, 
but  heterogeneous,  and  the  ray  does  not  traverse;  there 
are  no  thorugh  lights;  but  the  eye  of  the  beholder  is 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS  147 

puzzled,  detecting  many  unlike  tendencies,  and  a  life  not 
yet  at  one. 

Why  should  we  make  it  a  point  with  our  false  modesty 
to  disparage  that  man  we  are,  and  that  form  of  being  assigned 
to  us?  A  good  man  is  contented.  I  love  and  honor 
Epaminondas,  but  I  do  not  wish  to  be  Epaminondas.  I 
hold  it  more  just  to  love  the  world  of  this  hour  than  the 
world  of  his  hour.  Nor  can  you,  if  I  am  true,  excite  me  to 
the  least  uneasiness  by  saying,  "he  acted,  and  thou  sittest 
still."  I  see  action  to  be  good,  when  the  need  is,  and  sitting 
still  to  be  also  good.  Epaminondas,  if  he  was  the  man  I 
take  him  for,  would  have  sat  still  with  joy  and  peace,  if  his 
lot  had  been  mine.  Heaven  is  large,  and  affords  space  for 
all  modes  of  love  and  fortitude.  Why  should  we  be  busy- 
bodies  and  superserviceable  ?  Action  and  inaction  are 
alike  to  the  true.  One  piece  of  the  tree  is  cut  for  a  weather 
cock,  and  one  for  the  sleeper  of  a  bridge;  the  virtue  of  the 
wood  is  apparent  in  both. 

I  desire  not  to  disgrace  the  soul.  The  fact  that  I  am 
here,  certainly  shows  me  that  the  soul  had  need  of  an  organ 
here.  Shall  I  not  assume  the  post?  Shall  I  skulk  and 
dodge  and  duck  with  my  unseasonable  apologies  and 
vain  modesty,  and  imagine  my  being  here  impertinent? 
less  pertinent  than  Epaminondas  or  Homer  being  there? 
and  that  the  soul  did  not  know  its  own  needs?  Besides, 
without  any  reasoning  on  the  matter,  I  have  no  discontent. 
The  good  soul  nourishes  me  alway,  unlocks  new  magazines 
of  power  and  enjoyment  to  me  every  day.  I  will  not 
meanly  decline  the  immensity  of  good,  because  I  have  heard 
that  it  has  come  to  others  in  another  shape. 

Besides,  why  should  we  be  cowed  by  the  name  of  Action? 
'Tis  a  trick  of  the  senses, — no  more.  We  know  that  the 
ancestor  of  every  action  is  a  thought.  The  poor  mind  does 
not  seem  to  itself  to  be  any,  thing,  unless  it  have  an  outside 
badge, — some  Gentoo  diet,  or  Quaker  coat,  or  Calvinistic 
prayer-meeting,  or  philanthropic  society,  or  a  great  dona 
tion,  or  a  high  office,  or,  any  how,  some  wild  contrasting 
action  to  testify  that  it  is  somewhat.  The  rich  mind  lies 
in  the  sun  and  sleeps,  and  is  Nature.  To  think  is  to  act. 


148  SPIRITUAL   LAWS 

Let  us,  if  we  must  have  great  actions,  make  our  own  so, 
All  action  is  of  an  indefinite  elasticity,  and  the  least  admits  of 
being  inflated  with  the  celestial  air  until  it  eclipses  the  sun 
and  moon.  Let  us  seek  one  peace  by  fidelity.  Let  me  do 
my  duties.  Why  need  I  go  gadding  into  the  scenes  and  phi 
losophy  of  Greek  and  Italian  history,  before  I  have  washed 
my  own  face,  or  justified  myself  to  my  own  benefactors? 
How  dare  I  read  Washington's  campaigns,  when  I  have 
not  answered  the  letters  of  my  own,  correspondents?  Is 
not  that  a  just  objection  to  much  of  our  reading?  It  is 
a  pusillanimous  desertion  of  our  work  to  gaze  after  our 
neighbors.  It  is  peeping.  Byron  says  of  Jack  Bunting, 

"He  knew  not  what  to  say,  and  so  he  swore." 
I  may  say  it  of  our  preposterous  use  of  books:  "He  knew 
not  what  to  do,  and  so  he  read."  I  can  think  of  nothing 
to  fill  my  time  with,  and  so,  without  any  constraint,  I  find 
the  life  of  Brant.  It  is  a  very  extravagant  compliment  to 
pay  to  Brant,  or  to  General  Schuyler,  or  to  General  Wash 
ington.  My  time  should  be  as  good  as  their  time:  my 
world,  my  facts,  all  my  net  of  relations  as  good  as  theirs 
or  either  of  theirs.  Rather  let  me  do  my  work  so  well  that 
other  idlers,  if  they  choose,  may  compare  my  texture  with 
the  texture  of  these,  and  find  it  identical  with  the  best. 

This  over-estimate  of  the  possibilities  of  Paul  and  Pericles, 
this  under-estimate  of  our  own,  comes  from  a  neglect  of  the 
fact  of  an  identical  nature.  Bonaparte  knew  but  one 
Merit,  and  rewarded  in  one  and  the  same  way  the  good 
soldier,  the  good  astronomer,  the  good  poet,  the  good 
player.  Thus  he  signified  his  sense  of  a  great  fact.  The 
poet  uses  the  names  of  Caesar,  of  Tamerlane,  of  Bonduca,  of 
Belisarius;  the  painter  uses  the  conventional  story  of  the 
Virgin  Mary,  of  Paul,  of  Peter.  He  does  not,  therefore, 
defer  to  the  nature  of  these  accidental  men,  of  these  stock 
heroes.  If  the  poet  writes  a  true  drama,  then  he  is  Caesar, 
and  not  the  player  of  Ca3sar;  then  the  self-same  strain  of 
thought,  emotion  as  pure,  wit  as  subtle,  motions  as  swift, 
mounting,  extravagant,  and  a  heart  as  great,  self-sufficing, 
dauntless,  which  on  the  waves  of  its  love  and  hope  can  up- 


SPIRITUAL   LAWS  14$) 

lift  all  that  is  reckoned  solid  and  precious  in  the  world, 
palaces,  gardens,  money,  navies,  kingdoms, — marking  its 
own  incomparable  worth  by  the  slight  it  casts  on  these  gauds 
of  men, — these  all  are  his,  and  by  the  power  of  these  he 
rouses  the  nations.  But  the  great  names  cannot  stead  him, 
if  he  have  not  life  himself.  Let  a  man  believe  in  God,  and 
not  in  names  and  places  and  persons.  Let  the  great  soul 
incarnated  in  some  woman's  form,  poor  and  sad  and  single, 
in  some  Dolly  or  Joan,  go  out  to  service,  and  sweep  chambers 
and  scour  floors,  and  its  effulgent  day-beams  cannot  be 
muffled  or  hid,  but  to  sweep  and  scour  will  instantly  appear 
supreme  and  beautiful  actions,  the  top  and  radiance  of 
human  life,  and  all  people  will  get  mops  and  brooms; 
until,  lo,  suddenly  the  great  soul  has  enshrined  itself  in 
some  other  form,  and  done  some  other  deed,  and  that  is  now 
the  flower  and  head  of  all  living  nature. 

We  are  the  photometers,  we  the  irritable  goldleaf  and 
tinfoil  that  measure  the  accumulations  of  the  subtle  element. 
We  know  the  authentic  effects  of  the  true  fire  through  every 
one  ©f  its  million  disguises. 


J 

-4at,tl 


VII 

SELF-RELIANCE 

Ne  te  quEesiveris  extra. 

''Man  is  his  own  star;    and  the  soul  that  can 

Render  an  honest  and  a  perfect  man, 

Commands  all  light,  all  influence,  all  fate, 

Nothing  to  him  falls  early  or  too  late. 

Our  acts  our  angels  are,  or  good  or  ill, 

Our  fatal  shadows  that  walk  by  us  still." 
Epilogue  to  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Honest  Man's  Fortune. 

Cast  the  bantling  on  the  rocks, 
-Suckle  him  with  the  she-wolf's  teat: 
Wintered  with  the  hawk  and  fox, 
Power  and  speed  be  hands  and  feet. 

I  READ  the  other  day  some  verses  written  by  an  eminent 
painter  which  were  original  and  not  conventional.  Always 
the  soul  hears  an  admonition  in  such  lines,  let  the  'subject 
be  what  it  may.  The  sentiment  they  instil  is  of  more  value 
than  any  thought  they  may  contain.  To  believe  your  own 
thought,  to  believe  that  what  is  true  for  you  in  your  private 
heart,  is  true  for  all  men, — that  is  genius.  Speak  your  latent 
conviction,  and  it  shall  be  the  universal  sense;  lor  always 
the  inmost  becomes  the  outmost. — and  our  first  thought  is 
rendered  back  to  us  by  the  trumpets  of  the  Last  Judgment. 
Familiar  as  the  voice  of  the  mind  is  to  each,  the  highest  merit 
we  ascribe  to  Moses,  Plato,  and  Milton,  is  that  they  set  at 
naught  books  and  traditions,  and_sppke  jnot  what  men  but 
what  they  thought.  A  mnn  should  learn  to  Hetect  andjvatch 
that  glearn  of  light  which"  flashes  across  his  mind  from  within, 
more  than  the  lustre  of  the  Armament  of  bards  and  sages. 
Yet  he  dismisses  without  notic^e  his  thought,  because  it  is 
tesT"  IjT^veiy^work  of  genius  \ye  recognize  ou^  own  re 
jected  TEmigHlsTtHey  come  back  to  PS  with  a  certain  alien- 

150  I b 


gll- 

to 

in 

io, 


SELF-RELIANCE  151 

ated  majesty,.  Great  works  of  art  have  no  more  affecting 
lesson  for  us  than  this.  They  teach  us  to  abide  by  our  spon 
taneous  impression  with  good-humored  inflexibility  then 
most  ^vhen  the  whole  cry  of  voices  is  on  the  other  side. 
EIseJTo-morrow  a  stranger  will  say  with  masterly  good  sense 
precisely  what  we  have  thought  and  felt  all  the  time,  and 
we  shall  be  forced  to  take  with  shame  our  own  opinion  from 
another. 

There  is  a  time  in  every  man's  education  when  he  arrives 
at  the  conviction  that  envy  is  ignorance;  that  imitation^, is 
^suicide;  that  he  must  tuke~TTimseIf  jforbetter,  for  worse,  as 
his  portion;  that  though  the  wide  universe  is  full  of  good,; 
no  -kernel  of  nourishing  corn  can  come  to  him  but  through  • 
his  toil  bestowed  on  that  plot  of  ground  which  is  given  to, 
him  to  till.  The  rjower  which  resides  in  him  is  new 
nature,  and  nnrmj-m^hg  knows  whn.t.  that,  i«  whieh  he  can  do, 
rinndoesTie  know  until  he  has  triedX~Not  for  nothing  one 
face,  one  :cnar~acter,  one  fact  makes  much  impression  on  him, 
and  another  none.  It  is  not  without  pre-established  har 
mony,  this  sculpture  in  the  memory.  The  eye  was  placed 
where  one  ray  should  fall,  that  it  might  testify  of  that  par 
ticular  ray.  Bravely  let  him  speak  the  utmost  syllable  of 
his  confession.  We  but  half  express  ourselves,  and  are 
ashamed  of  that  divine  idea  which  each  of  us  represents.  It 
may  be  safely  trusted  as  proportionate  and  of  good  issues, 
so  it  be  faithfully  imparted,  but  God  will  not  have  his 
work  made  manifest  by  cowards.  It  needs  a  divine  man  to 
exhibit  anything  divine.  ^A  man  is  relieved  and  gay  when 
he  has  put  his  heart  into  his  work  and  done  his  best;  but 
what  he  has  said  or  done  otherwise,  shall  give  him  no  peace. 
It  is  a  deliverance  which  does  not  deliver.  In  the  attempt 
his  genius  deserts  him;  no  muse  befriends;  no  invention, 
no  hope. 

Trust  thyself :,  every  heart  vibrates  to  that  iron  string. 
Accept  the  place  the  divine  Providence  has  found  for  you; 
thespciety  of  your  contemporaries,  the  connection  of  events. 
Great  men  have  always  done  so,  and  confided  themselves 
childlike  to  the  genius  of  their  age,  betraying  their  per 
ception  that  the  Eternal  was  stirring  at  tji.eir  heart,  working 


152  SELF-RELIANCE 

through  their  hands,  predominating  in  all  their  being.  And 
we  are  now  men,  and  must  accept  in  the  highest  mind  the 
same  transcendent  destiny;  and  not  pinched  in  a  corner,  not 
cowards  fleeing  before  a  revolution,  but  redeemers  and 
benefactors,  pious  aspirants  to  be  noble  clay  plastic  under 
the  Almighty  effort,  let  us  advance  and  advance  on  Chaos 
and  the  Dark. 

What  pretty  oracles  nature  yields  us  on  this  text  in  the 
face  and  behavior  of  children,  babes  and  even  brutes!  "'Trial; 
divided  and  rebel  mind,  that  distrust  of  a  sentiment  because 
our  arithmetic  has  computed  the  strength  and  means  op 
posed  to  our  purpose,  these  have  not.  Their  mind  being 
whole,  their  eye  is  yet  unconquered;  and  when  we  look 
in  their  faces,  we  are  disconcerted.  Infancy  conforms  10 
nobody:  all  conform  to  it,  so  that  one  babe  commonly  makes 
four  or  five  out  of  the  adults  who  prattle  and  play  to  it. 
So  God  has  armed  youth  and  puberty  and  manhood  no 
less  with  its  own  piquancy  and  charm,  and  made  it  enviable 
and  gracious,  and  its  claims  not  to  be  put  by,  if  it  will  stand 
by  itself.  Do  not  think  the  youth  has  no  force  because  he 
cannot  speak  to  you  and  me.  Hark!  in  the  next  room,  who 
spoke  so  clear  and  emphatic?  Good  Heaven!  it  is  he!  10 
is  that  very  lump  of  bashfulness  and  phlegm  which  for  weeks 
has  done  nothing  but  eat  when  you  were  by,  that  now  rolls 
out  these  words  like  bell-strokes.  It  seems  he  knows  how 
to  speak  to  his  contemporaries.  Bashful  or  bold,  then,  he 
will  know  how  to  make  us  seniors  very  unnecessary. 

Tjtie  nonchalance  of  boys  who  are  sure  of  a  dinner,  and 
would  disdain  as  much  as  a  lord  to  do  or  say  aught  to  con 
ciliate  one,  is^the  healthy  attitude  of  human  nature.  How 
is  a  boy  £he  master  Qf  society!  Independent,  irresponsible, 
looking  out  from  his  corner  on  such  people  and  facts  as  pass 
by,  he  tries  and  sentences  thorn  on  their  merits,  in  flie  swift 
summary  way  of  boys,  as  good,,  bad,  interesting,  silly,  elo 
quent,  troublesome.  He  cumbers  himself  never  about  con 
sequences,  about  interests :  he  give^anindependent,  genuine 
verdict.  You, must  courlJhiinj_Tie  does  noToourt  yon.  But 
the ;  man  is,  as  it_werer  cLappedJritojail  by  his  Consciousness. 
As  soon  as  He  has  once  actetT^FspokerrlvitTi  eclat,  he  Ts  a 


SELF-RELIANCE  153 

committed  person,  watched  by  the  sympathy  or  the  hatred 
of  hundreds,  whose  affections  must  now  enter  into  his 
account.  There  is  no  Lethe  for  this.  Ah,  that  he  could 
pass  again  into  his  neutral,  godlike  independence !  Who  can 
thus  lose  \ all  pledge,  and  having  observed,  observe  again 
from  the  same  unaffected,  unbiased,  unbribable,  unaffrighted 
innocence,  must  always  be  formidable,  must  always  engage 

•the  poet's  and  the  man's  regards.  Of  such  an  immortal  youth 
the  force  "toild  be  felt.  He  would  utter  opinions  on  all 
passing  affajs,  which  being  seen  to  be  not  private,  but 
necessary,  would  sink  like  darts  into  the  ear  of  men,  and 
put  them  in  fear. 

These  are  the  voices  which  we  hear  in  solitude,  but  they 
grow  "Taint  and  inaudible  as  we  enter  into  the  world.  So 
ciety  everywhere  is  in  conspiracy  against  tl\3  manhood  of 
every  q$e  of  its  members.  Society  is  a  joint-stock  com 
pany,  in  which  the  members  agree,  for  the  better  securing 

"'of  his  bread  to  each  shareholder,  to  surrender  the  liberty 
and  culture  of  the  eaterjw  The  virtue  in  most  request  is 
conformity.  Self-reliance  is  its  aversion.  ..It  loves  not  realn 
ities  and  creators,-but  names  and  customs. 

Whoso  would  be  a  man  must  be  a  nonconformist.  He 
who  would  gather  immortal  palms  ~must  hot  Jb&Jiindcred  by 
Ihe  name  6f  •  gbdcte&i,  but-must  explore1  if  if  be  goodness. 
Nothing  is  at  last  sacred  blit  tlielnfognty  of  our  own  mind. 
Absolve  you  to  yourself,  and  you  shall  have  the  suffrage 
of  the  world.  I  remember  an  answer  which,  when  quite 
young,  I  was  prompted  to  make  to  a  valued  adviser  who 
was  wont  to  importune  me  with  the  dear  old  doctrines  of 
the  church.  On  my  saying,  What  have  I  to  do  with  the 
sacredness  of  traditions,  if  I  live  wholly  from  within?  my 
friend  suggested, — "But  these  impulses  may  be  from  below, 
not  from  above."  I  replied,  "They  do  not  seem  to  me  to  be 
such;  but  if  I  am  the  devil's  child,  I  will  live  then  from  the 
devil."  No  law  can  be  sacred  to  me  but  that  of  my  nature. 
Good  and  bad  are  but  names,  very  readily  transferable  to 
that  or  this;  the  only  right  is  what  is  after  my  constitution, 
the  only  wrong  is  what  is  against  it.  A  man  is  to  carry 
himself  in  the  presence  of  all  opposition  as  if  every  thing 


154  SELF-RELIANCE 


were  titular  and  ephemeral  but  he.  I  arrb  ashamed  /to  think 
how  easily  we  capitulate  to  badges  ajjjr  names,  ft\  large 
societies  and  dead  institutions.  Every^  ^dec^lft  and  well- 
spoken  individual  affects  and  sways  me  more  than  is  right. 
I  ought  to  go  upright  and  vital,  and  speak  line  rude  truth 
in  all  ways.  If  malice  and  vanity  we^^tbe^oat  of  phi 
lanthropy,  shaf  tnat  "passT  If  Ian  angry  bigot  assumes  this 
bountiful  cause  of  Abolition,  and  comes  *o  me*^ith  his  last 


;  -  ,      -  -  jii»LAjfcl_..IZl.r'*^*^^~^TT«-___: 

uncharitable  ambition  with  this  incredible  tenderness  for 
black  folk  a  thousand  miles  off.  Thy  love*  afar  is  spite  at 
home."  Rough  and  graceless  wguj.eMSP'such  greeting,  but 
truth  is  handsomer  than  the  affectation  of  love.  Your 
goodness  must  have  some  edge  to  it — else  it  is  none.  The 
doctrine  of  hatred  must  be  preached,  as  the  counteraction  of 
the  doctrine  of  love  when  that  pules  and  whines.  I  shun 
father  and  mother  and  wife  and  brother,  when  my  genius 
calls  me.  I  would  write  on  the  lintels  of  the  door-post, 
Whim.  I  hope  it  is  somewhat  better  than  whim_at  last, 
but  we  cannot  spend  the  day  in  explanation.  Expect  me  not 
to  show  cause  why  I  seek  or  wrhy  I  exclude  company.  Then, 
again,  clo  not  tell  me,  as  a  good  man  did  to-day,  of  my  "obli 
gation  to  put  all  poor  men  in  good  situations.  Are  they  my 
j^oor?  I  tell  thee,  thou  foolish  philanthropist,  that  I^grudge 
the  dollar,  the  dime,  the  cent  I  give  to  such  men  as  do  not 
belong  To  me,  and  to  whom  I  do  not  belong..  There  is  a 
class  of  persons  to  whom  by  all  spiritual  affinity  I  am 
bought  and  sold;  for  them.!  will  go  to  prison,  if  need  be; 
but  your  miscellaneous  popular  charities;  the  education  at 
college  of  fools;  the  building  of  meeting-houses  to  the  vain 
end  to  which  many  now  stand ;  jdm.g.Jtp  sots;  and  the  thous 
andfold  JXelief  Societies; — though  I  confess  with  shame  I 
sometimes  succumb  and  give  the  dollar,  it  is  a  wicked  dollar 
which  by  and  by  I  shall  have  the  manhood  to  withhold. 

Virtues  are,  in  the  popular  estimate,  rather  the  exception 
than  the  rule.  There  is  the  man  and  his  virtues.  ,_Mgn_do 
what  is  called  a  good  action,  as  some  piece  of  courage  or 


SELF-RELIANCE  155 

i 

charity,  much  as  they  would  pav.a.fineJn  expiation  of  daily 
non-appearance  on  parade.  Their  works  are  done  as  an 
apology  or  extenuation  of  their  living  in  the  world,  —  as 
invalids  and  the  insane  pay  a  high  board.  Their  virtues  are 
penances.  Ijlo  not  wish  to  expiate,  but  to  live.  My  life 
a  life.  It  is  |pr  itself,  and  not  for  a 


_ 

Spectacle.  I  much  prefer  that  it  should  be  of  a  lower  strain, 
s"o  it  be^  genuine  and  equal,  than  that  it  should  be  glittering 
and  unsteady.  I  wish  it  to  be  sound  and  sweet,  and  not  to 
need  diet  and  bleeding.  My  life  should  be  unique;  it  should 
be  an  alms,  a  battle,  a  conquest,  a  medicine.  I  ask  primary 
evidence  that  you  are  a  man,  and  refuse  this  appeal  from 
the  man  to  his  actions.  I  know  that  for  myself  it  makes 
no  difference  whether  I  do  or  forbear  those  actions  which 
are  reckoned  excellent.  I  cannot  consent  to  pay  for  a  priv 
ilege  where  I  have  intrinsic  right.  Few  and  mean  as  my 
gifts  may  be,  I  actually  am,  and  do  not  need  for  my  own 
assurance  or  the  assurance  of  my  fellows  any  secondary 
testimony. 

What  I  must,  do  f  ,i,g  all  that  concerns  me:  not-arhat  the 
popple  think.  This  rule,  equally  arduous  in  actual  and  in 
intellectual  me,  may  serve  for  the  whole  distinction  between 
greatness  and  meanness.  It  is  the  harder,  because  you 
alwaj^sjiiul  those  who  think  they  know  what  is  your 
better  {Kan  you  know^TtT  It  is  easy  in  the  worlc}  tofave 
after  the  world's  _Qpimon  ;  it  is  easy  in  solitude  to  live  after 
our  ownjpbut  the  great  man  is  ho  who  in  the  midst  of  the 
crowd  koops  with  perfect  sweetness  the  independence  of  soli- 
tujje.  „.„, 

"Tne  objection  to  conforming  to  usages  that  have  become 
dead  to  you,  is,'  that  it  scatters  your  force.  It  loses  your 
time,  and  blurs  the  impression  of  your  character.  If 
you  maintain  a  dead  church,  contribute  to  a  dead  Bible- 
Society,  or  vote  with  a  great  party  either  for  the  Govern 
ment  or  against  it,  spread  your  table  like  base  house 
keepers,  —  under  all  these  screens,  I  have  difficulty  to  de 
tect  the  precise  man  you  are.  And,  of  course,  so  much  force 
is  withdrawn  from  your  proper  life.  But  do  your  thing, 
and  I  shall  know  you.  Do  your  work,  and  you  shall  rein- 


156  SELF-RELIANCE 

force  yourself.    A  man  must  consider  what  a  blind-man's- 
buff  is  this  game  of  conformity.  ^If  I  know  youiL-sect.  1 
nrgnrr|pnt     I  hear  a  preacher  announce  for 


his  text  and  topic  the  expediency  of  one  of  the  institutions 
of  his  church.  Do  I  not  know  beforehand  that  not  possibly 
can  he  say  a  new  and  spontaneous  word-L_JDa_LjIQt_knpw 
that  with  all  this  ostentation  _o_f  examining  the  grounds  of 
the  inst&rtiuii,  tfiTwill  dp  no  such  thing?  Do  I  not  loiow 
to  himself  not  to  look  but_at  one  side; 


the  permitted  side,  not  as  a  man,  but  as  a  parish  minister? 
He  is  a  retained  attorney,  and  these  airs  of  the  bench  are 
the  emptiest  affectation.  Well,  most  men  have  bound  their 
eyes  with  one  or  another  handkerchief  and  attached  them-. 
selves  to  some  one  of  these  communities  of  opinion.  This 
conformity  makes  them  not  false  in  a  few  particulars, 
authors  of  a  few  lies,  but  false;  in  all  particulars.  Their  every 
truth  is  not  quite  true.  Their  two  is  not  the  real  two, 
their  four  not  the  real  four:  so  that  every  word  they  say 
chagrins  us,  and  we  know  not  where  to  begin  to  set  them 
right.  Meantime  nature  is  not  slow  to  equip  us  in  the 
prison-uniform  of  the  party  to  which  we  adhere.  We  come 
to  wear  one  cut  ofjace  and  figure,  and  acquire  by  degrees 
the  gentlest  "fl.gnnnf>  expression.  There  is  a  mortifying  ex 
perience  in  particular  which  does  not  fail  to  wreak  itself 
also  in  the  general  history;  I  mean,  "the  foolish  face  of 
praise,"  the  forced  smile  which  we  put  on  in  company  where 
we  do  not  feel  at  ease  in  answer  to  conversation  which  does 
not  interest  us.  The  muscles,  not  spontaneously  moved,  but 
moved  by  a  low  usurping  willfulness,  grow  tight  about  the 
outline  of  the  face,  and  make  the  most  disagreeable  sen 
sation,  —  a  sensation  of  rebuke  and  warning  which  no  brave 
young  man  will  suffer  twice. 

\  i  For  nonconformity  tbeworld  whips  you  with  its  -dis~* 
r)leasurer,..-And  thereiorea  man  must  know  how  to  estimalc"" 
a~"sour  face.    The  bystanders  look  askance  on  him  in  the 
public  street  or  in  the  friend's  parlor.    If  this  aversation 
had  its  origin  in  contempt  and  resistance  like  his  own,  he 
might  well  go  home  with  a  sad  countenance;  but  the  sour 
faces  of  the  multitude,  like  their  sweet  faces,  have  no  deep 


SELF-RELIANCE  157 

cause, — disguise  no  god,  but  are  put  on  and  off  as  the  wind 

blows  and  a  newspaper  directs.    Yet  is  the  discontent  of  the 

multitude  more  formidable  than  that  of  the  senate  and  the 

jcojlege.   .Tt  is  easy  enough  for  a  firm  man  who  knows  the 

world  to  brook  the  rage  of  the  cultivated  classes.    Their 

rage  is  decorous  and  prudent;  for  they  are  timid,  as  being 

very  vulnerable  themselves.    But  when  to  their  feminine 

rage  the  indignation  of  the  people  is  added,  when  the  ignor- 

anl  and  the  poor  are  aroused,  when  the  unintelligent  brute 

force  that  lies  at  the  bottom  of  society  is  made  to  growl 

and  mow,  it  needs  the  habit  of  magnanimity  and  religion 

to  treat  it  godlike  as  a  ^trifle  of  no  concernment. 

^T} The  other  terror  that  scares  us  i>om  self-trust  is  our  con- 

^sistencv:  aireverence"ior  our  past  act  or  word?  because  the 

11  eyes'Ti  others  Mve'no  other  dHaTlor  computing  our  orbit 

than  our  past  actsTlncLwe  are  loath  to  disappoint  them-— 

But  why  should  you  keep  your  head  over  your  shoulder £V 
ISiy-^Eag^'bout^  this  monstrous  corpse  of  jgm^jnemory,  f, 
lest  you  contradict  somewhat  you  have  stated  in  this  or  w> 
that  public  place,?     Suppose  jypu  should  contradict  your 
self;   what  then?     It  seems  to  bo  a.,  rule  of  wisdom;  never 
to  rely  on  your  memory  alone,  scarcely  even  in  acts  of  pure 
memory,  but  bring  the  past  for  judgment  into  the  thous 
and-eyed  presenj^ancT  live  ever  in  a  new  da"y._  Trust  your 
lotiop. ,  In  your  metaphysics  you   have   denied  'person- 

Deity :  yet  when  the  devout  motions  of  the  soul  -r^ 
come,  jleld  to  them  heart  and  life,  though  they  should  clothe  j 
God  with  shape  and  color.    Leave  your  theory,  as  Joseph,-,   . 
his  coal?  in  the  hand  of  the  harlot,  and  flee&W- '  (^4  \  (yvv&>  *i 
A  foolish,  consistency  is  the  hobgoblin  of  Jityie^rjaind.^  \ ,  L 
adored  | by  little  statesmen  and   philosophers   and   divines. 
"ffiith  consistency  a  great  soul  has  simply  nothing  to  do. 
He  may  as  well  concern  himself  with  his  shadow  on  the 
wall.    Out  upon  your  guarded  lips!     Sew  them  up  with 
packthread,  do.    Else,  jf  you  would  be  a  man,  speak  what 
you  think  to-day  in  words  as"Iiard  as  cannon-balls,  and  to 
morrow  speak  what  to-morrow  thinks  in  hard  words  again, 
though  it  contradict  every  thing  you  said  to-day.     Ah.  then, 
exclaim  The  aged  ladies,  you  shall  be  sure  to  be  misunder- 


158  SELF-RELIANCE 

stood.  Misunderstood!  It  is  a  right  fool's  word.  Is  it 
slT  bad  then  to  be  misunderstood?  Pythagoras  was  "mis 
understood,  and  Socrates,  and  Jesus,  and  Luther,  and  Coper 
nicus,  and  Galileo,  and  Newton,,,  and  every  pure  and  wise 
spirit  that  ever  took  flesh.  To  be  great  is  to  be  misunder 
stood. 

I  suppose  no  man  can  violate  his  nature.  All  the 
sallies  of  his  will  are  rounded  in  by  the  law  of  his  being, 
as  the  inequalities  of  Andes  and  Himmaleh  are  insigni 
ficant  in  the  curve  of  the  sphere.  Nor  does  it  matterhow 
you  gauge  and  try  him.  A  cha^sH^r  is  like  an  acros^ 
or  Alexandrian  stanza; — read  it  f orwai  117  backward,  or 
across,  it  still  spells  the  same  thing.  In  this  pleasing  con 
trite  wood-life  which  God  allows  me,  let  me  record  day  by 
day  my  honest  thought,  without  prospect  or  retrospect, 
and  I  cannot  doubt  it  will  be  found  symmetrical,  though  I 
mean  it  not,  and  see  it  not. '  My  book  should  smell  of  pines 
and  resound  with  the  hum  of  insects.  The  swallow  over 
my  window  should  inter-weave  that  thread  or  straw  he 
carries  in  his  bill  into  my  web  also.  We  pass  for  what  we 
are.  Character  teaches  above  our  wills.  Men  imagine  that 
they  communicate  their  virtue  or  vice  only  by  overt  actions, 
and  do  not  see  that  virtue  or  vice  emit  a  breath  every  mo 
ment. 

Fear  never  but  you  shall  be  consistent  in  whatever  variety 
of  actions,  so  they  be  each  honest  and  natural  in  their  hour. 
For  of  one  will  the  actions  will  be  harmonious,  however  unlike 
they  seem.  These  varieties  are  lost  sight  of  when  seerTat  "3 
little  distance,  at  a  little  height  of  thought.  One  tendency 
unites  them  all.  The  voyage  of  the  best  sKip~Is~'a  2igzag 
"line  of  a  hundred  tacks.  This  is  only  microscopic  crit 
icism.  See  the  line  from  a  sufficient  distance,  and  it 
straightens  itself  to  the  average  tendency.  Your  genuine 
action  will  explain  itself,  and  will  explain  your  other  gen 
uine  actions.  Your  conformity  explains  nothing.  Act  singly, 
and  what  you  have  already  done  singly  will  justify  you 
.now.  Greatness  always  appeals  to  the  future.  If  I  can 
be  great  enough  now  to  do  right  and  scorn  eyes,  I  must 
have  done  so  much  right  before  as  to  defend  me  now,  jBg_ 


SELF-RELIANCE  159 

ty**  %t  ( li^urf 

Always"  scorprtapperAnesr 

and  you  always  may.    The  force  of  character  is  cumulative.   ' 
All  the  foregone  days  oFvirtue  work  their  health  into  this,  i JX 
What  makes  the  majesty  of  the  heroes  of  the  senate  and  the  £4,^ 
field,  which  so  fills  the  imagination?    The  consciousness  of  ^ 
a  train  of  great  days  and  victories  behind.    There  they  all >  V 
stand,  and  shed  a  united  light  on  the  advancing  actor.    He 
is  attended  as  by  a  visible  escort  of  angels  to  every  man's^ 
eye.    That   is   it   which   throws   thunder   into    Chatham 's*4^ 
voice,  and  dignity  into  Washington's  port,  and  America  into^Ato, 
Adam's  eye.    Honor  is  venerable  to  us,  because  it  is  no 
ephemeris.     It   is   always   ancient   virtue.     We   worship   it  ^,. 
to-day,  because  it  is  not  of  to-day.    We  love  it  and  pay  it 
homage,  because  it  is  not  a  trap  for  our  love  and  homage, 
but  is  self-dependent^  self -derived,,  and  therefore  of  an  old 
immaculate  pedigree,  even  if  shown  in  a  young  person, 
~7~I  hope  in  these  days  we  have  heard  the  last  of  conf ormi 
and  consistency.    Let  the  words  be  gazetted  and  ^ridiculous 
nenceiorward     Instead  of  the  gong  for  dinner,  let  us  hear 
a  whistle  from  the  Spartan  fife.    Let  us  bow  and  apologize 
never  more.    A  great  man  is  coming  to  eat  at  my  house.    I 
do  not  wish  to  please  him;  I  wish  that  he  should  wish  to 
please  me.    I  will  stand  here  for  humanity;  and  though  I 
would  make  it  kind,  I  would  make  it  true.    Let  us  affront 
and   reprimand   the   smooth   mediocrity   and   squalid 
tentment  of  the  times,  and  hurl  in  the  face  of  custom^  and  |$ 
trade,  and  office,  the  fact  which  is  the  upshot  of  all  history,,    r 
that  there  is  a  great  responsible  Thinker  and  Actor  moving  ^ 
wherever  moves  a  man;  that  a  true  man  belongs  to  no 
time  or  place,  but  is  the  center  of  things.     Where  he 
there  is  nature.]   He  measures  you,  and  all  men,  and 
events.    You  are  constrained  to  accept  his  standard.    Ordi-  *f 
narily  everybody  in  society  reminds  us  of  somewhat  else 
or  of  some  other  person.    Character,  reality,  reminds  you  of 
nothing  else.    It  takes  place  of  the  whole  creation,    The 
man  must  be  so  much  that  he  must  make  all  circumstances  ^* 
indifferent,- — put  nil  means  into  the  shade.     This  all  great^/' 
men  are  and  do.     Every  true  man  is  a  cause,  a  country,  anc#>*^ 

an  age;  requires  infinite  spaces  and  numbers  and  time  fully 6*^ 

£>^  J  ' 


160  SELF-RELIANCE 

to  accomplish  his  thought; — and  posterity  seem  to  follow 
his  steps  as  a  procession.  A  man  Caesar  is  born,  and^  for 
ages  after  we  Lave  a  Roman  Empire.  Christ  is  born,"  and 
millions  of  minds  so  grow  and  cleave  to  his  genius,  that  he 
is  confounded  with  virtue  and  the  possible  of  man.  TSh 
institution  is  the  lengthened  shadow  of  one  man-  as,  the^ 
fTeformation,  of  Luther;  Quakerism,  of  Fox;  Methodism,  of 
Wesley;  Abolition,  of  Clarkson.  Scipio,  Milton  called  "the 
height  of  Rome";  and  all  history  resolves  itself  very  easily 
into  the  biography  of  a  few  stout  and  earnest  persons. 

Let  a  man,  then,  know  his  worth,  and  keep  things  under 
his  feet.  Let  him  not  peep  or  steal,  or  skulk  up  and  down 
with  the  air  of  a  charity-boy,  a  bastard,  or  an  interloper, 
in  the  world  which  exists  for  him.  But^the^man  in  the 
street,  finding  no  worth  in  himself  which  corresponds  to  the 
force  which  built  a  tower  or  sculptured  a  marble  god,  feels 
poor  when  he  looks  on  these.  To  him  a  palace,  a  statue,  or"" 
a  costly  book  have  an  alien  and  forbidding  air/'mucETik'e*  ~ 
a  gay  equipage,  and  seem  to  say  like  that,  "Who  are  you, 
sir?"  Yet  they  are  all  his,  suitors  for  his  notice-petitioners  . 
to  his  faculties  that  they  will  come  out  'and  take  possession. 
The  picture  waits  for  my  verdict :  it  is  not  to  command  me, 
but  I  am  to  settle  its  claims  to  praise.  That  popular  fable 
of  the  sot  who  was  picked  up  dead  drunk  in  the  street, 
"carried  to  the  duke's  house,  washed  and  dressed  and  laid  in 
the  duke's  bed,  and,  on  his  waking,  treated  with  all  obsequi 
ous  ceremony  like  the  duke,  and  assured  that  he  had  been 
insane, — owes  its  popularity  to  the  fact,  that  it  symbol 
izes  so  well  the  state  of  man,  who  is  in  the  world  a  sort  of 
sot,  but  now  and  then  wakes  up,  exercises  his  reason,  and 
finds  himself  a  true  prince. 

^.Our  reading  is  mendicant  and  sycophantic^..  JuJ^tory, 
our  imagination  makes  fools  of  us,  plays  us  false.  King 
dom  and  lordship,  power  and  estate,  are  a  gaudier  vocab 
ulary  than  private  John  andv  Edward  in  a  small  house  and 
common  day's  work:T>ut  the  things  of  life  are  the  same  to 
both;  the  sum-total  of  both  is  the  same.  Why  all  this 
deference  to  Alfred,  and  Scandjerbeg,  and  Gustavus? 
they  were  virtuous:  did  thev  wear  out  virtue? 


SELF-RELIANCE  161 

As  great  a  stake  depends  on  your  private  act  to-day,  as 
followed  their  public  and  renowned  steps.  When  private 
men  shall  act  .with  vast  views,  the  lustre ijv^be  .transferred 
froqTThF  actions  of  kings  to  those  of  gentlemen. 
{The  wortcTlIas  indeecT'Leen  instructed  by  its  kings,  who 
have  so  magnetised  the  eyes  of  nations.  It  has  been  taught 
by  this  colossal  symbol  the  mutual  reverence  that  is  due 
JTom  man  to  man.  The  joyful  loyalty  with  which  men 
"Have  everywhere  suffered  the  king,  the  noble,  or  the  great 
proprietor  to  walk  among  them  by  a  law  of  his  own;  make 
his  own  scale  of  men  and  things,  and  reverse  theirs;  pay 
for  benefits  not  with  money  but  with  honor,  and  represent 
the  Law  in  his  person, — was  the  hieroglyphic  by  which  they 
obscurely  signified  their  consciousness  of  their  own  right 
and  comeliness,  the  right  of  every  man. 

The  magnetism  which  all  original  action  exerts  is  explained 
when  we  inquire  the  reason  of  self -trust.  Who  is  the 
Trustee?  What  is  the  aboriginal  Self  on  which  a  universal 
reliance  may  be  grounded?  What  is  the  nature  and  power 
of  that  science-baffling  star,  without  parallax,  without  cal 
culable  elements,  which  shoots  a  ray  of  beauty  even  into 
trivial  and  impure  actions,  if  the  least  mark  of  independ 
ence  appear?  The  inquiry  leads  us  to  that  source,  at  once 
the  essence  of  genius,  the  essence  of  virtue,  and  the  essence 
of  life,  which  we  call  Spontaneity  or  Instinct.  We  denote 
this  primary  wisdom  as_In,tuition,  whilst  ^LJater  teach 
ings  arejuitions.  ( In  that  deep  force,  the  fast  fact,  behind 
which  analysis  cannot  go,  all  things  fiftd  their  common 
origin.  For  the  sense  of  being,  wEIch  in  calm  hours  rise's, 

1  tw^-Tnow  not  how,  in  the  soul,  is  not  diverse  from  things, 
from  space,  from  light,  from  time,  from  man,  but  one  with 
them,  and  proceedeth  obviously  from  the  same  source  whence 
their  life  and  being  also  proceedeth.  We  first  share  the  lift.^ 
by  which  things  exist,  and  afterwards  seeTliem  as  appear 
ances  in  nature,  and  forget  that we.  have  .shared  their  cause. 

"Here  is  the  fountain  of  action  and  the  fountain  of  thought. 
Here  are  the  lungs  of  that  inspiration  which  giveth  man 
wisdom,  of  that  inspiration  of  man  which  cannot  be  denied 
Without  impiety  and  atheism.  We  lie  in  the  lap  of  im- 


162  SELF-RELIANCE 

mense  intelligence,  which  makes  us  organs  of  its  activity 
and  receivers  of  its  truth.  When  we  discern  justice,  when 
we  discern  truth,  we  do  nothing  of  ourselves  but  allow  a 
passage  to  its  beams.  If  we  ask  whence  this  comes,  if  we 
seek  to  pry  into  the  soul  that  causes,  all  metaphysics, 
all  philosophy  is  at  fault.  Its  presence  or  its  absence  is 
all  we  can  affirm.  Every  man  discerns  between  the  volun 
tary  acts  of  his  mind,  and  his  involuntary  perceptions. 
And^to  Jiis  Jnyoluntary  jjejcgeptions  he  knows  a  jparfett 
respect  is  due.  He  may  err  in  the  expression  of  them,  but 
he  knows  that  these  things  are  so,  like  day  and  night,  not 
to  be  disputed.  All  my  willful  actions  and  acquisitions  are 
but  roving; — the  most  trivial  reverie,  the  faintest  emotion 
are  domestic  and  divine.  Thoughtless  people  contradict 
as  readily  the  statement  of  perceptions  as  of  opinions, 
or  rather  much  more  readily;  for  they  do  not  distinguish 
between  perception  and  notion.  They  fancy  that  I  choose 
to  see  this  or  that  thing.  But  perception  is  not  whimsical, 
but  fatal.  If  I  see  a  trait,  my  children  will  see  it  after  me, 
and  in  course  of  time  all  mankind, — although  it  may 
chance  that  no  one  has  seen  it  before  me.  For  my  per 
ception  of  it  is  as  much  a  fact  as  the  sun. 

The  relations  of  the  soul  to  the  divine  spirit  are  so  pure 
that  it  is  profane  to  seek  to  interpose  help.  It  must  be 
that  when  God  speaketh,  he  should  communicate  not  one 
thing,  but  all  things;  should  fill  the  world  with  his  voice; 
should  scatter  forth  light,  nature,  time,  souls,  from  the  center 
of  the  present  thought;  and  new  date  and  new  create  the 
whole.  Whenever  a  mind  is  simple,  and  receives  a  divine 
wisdom,  then  old  things  pass  away, — means,  teachers,  texts, 
temples  fall;  it  lives  now,  and  absorbs  past  and  future  into 
the  present  hour.  All  things  are  made  sacred  by  relation  to 
it, — one  thing  as  much  as  another.  All  things  are  dissolved 
to  their  center  by  their  cause,  and  in  the  universal  miracle 
petty  and  particular  miracreXdisappear.  This  is  and  must 
be.  If,  therefore,  a  man  claims  to  know  and  speak  of  God, 
and  carries  you  backward  to  the  phraseology  of  some  old 
mouldered  nation  in  another  country,  in  another  world, 
believe  him  not.  Is  the  acorn  better  than  thp.nsV  whi"h  is 


SELF-RELIANCE  163 

its  fullness  and  completion?  Is  the  parent  better  than 
the  child  into  whom  he  has  cast  his  ripened  being?  Whence 
then  this  worship  of  the  past?  The  centuries  are  conspir- 
ators"against  the  sanity  and  majesty  of  the  soul. Time  and 
space  are  but  physiological  colors  which  the  eye  maketh, 
but  the  soul  is  light;  where  it  is,  is  day;  where  it  was,  is 
night;  and  history  is  an  impertinence  and  an  injury,  if  it 
be  anything  more  than  a  cheerful  apologue  or  parable 
of  my  being  and  becoming. 

y  Mnn  ^ js ||t t i mi q1  a n d  n pnl ngpf i r  JTfLig  no  longer  Upright. 
He  dares  not  say  "I  think/'  "I  am,"  but  quotes  some  saint 
or  sage.  He  is  ashamed  before  the  blade  of  grass  or  the 

"blowing  Irose.  These  roses  under  my  window  make  no  ref 
erence  to  former  roses  or  to  better  ones;  they  are  for 
what  they  are;  they  exist  with  God  to-day.  There  is  no 
time  to  them.  There  is  simply  the  rose;  it  is  perfect  in,-  ' 
every  moment  of  its  existence.  Before  a  leaf-bud  has  burst, 
its  whole  life  acts;  in  the  full-blown  flower  there  is  no  more;  N 
in  the  leafless  root  there  is  no  less.  Its  nature  is  satisfied, 
and  it  satisfies  nature,  in  all  moments  alike.  There  is  no, 
time  to  it.  But  man postpones  or  remembers;:  he  does 
not  live  in  the  present,  but  with  reyejled-sys^imoiita  the  past, 
or,  heedless  of  the  rJ.cHej_t£at  surround  hiny  stands  on  tip 
toe  to  foresee  the  future.  He  cannot  be  happy  and  strong 
until  heTjoo^. JiyesMVi y^Lj^ure  in  tlie  present,  above  time. 
"TEs" should  be  plain  enough";  Yet  see  what  strong  in 
tellects  dare  not  yet  hear  God  himself,  unless  he  speak  the 
phraseology  of  I  know  not  what  David/ or  Jeremiah,  •  or 
Pauj^^e~sriairiibt" always  set  so  %re,at  a  prir»p  nn  a  fpw 
texts,  on  a  few  lives.  We  are  like  children  who  repeat  *by 
rote  the  sentences  of  grandames  and  tutors,  and,  as  they 
grow  Bolder,  of  the  men  of  talents  and  character  they  chance 
to  see, — painfully  "recollecting  the  exact  words  they  spoke; 
afterwards,  when  they  come  into  the  point  of  view  which 
those  had  who  uttered  these  sayings,  they  understand  them, 
and  are  willing  to  let  the  words  go;  for,  at  any  time,  they 
can  use  words  as  good,  when  occasion  comes.  So  was  it 
with  us;  so  will  it  be,  if  we  proceed.  I^we  live  truly,  we 
§&all  see  truly.  It  is  as  easy  for  the  strong  man  to  be  strong, 


164  SELF-RELIANCE 

as  it  is  for  the  weak  to  be  weak.  When  we  have  new  per 
ception,  we  shall  gladly  disburden  the  memory  of  its  hoarded 
treasures  as  old  rubbish.  When  a  man  lives  with  God,  his 
voice  shall  be  as  sweet  as  the  murmur  of  the  brook  and  the 
rustle  of  the  corn. 

And  now  at  last  the  highest  truth  on  this  subject  re 
mains  unsaid,  probably  cannot  be  said;  for  all  that  we  say 
is  the  far-off  remembering  of  the  intuition.  That  thought, 
by  what  I  can  now  nearest  approach  to  say  it,  is  this.  When_ 
good  is  near  you,  when  you  have  life  in  yourself, — it  is  m>< 
by  any  known  or  appointed  way;  you  shall  not  discern  tin- 
footprints  of  any  other;  you  shall  not  see  the  face  of  man; 
you  shall  not  hear  any  name; — the  way,  the  thought,  the 
good  shall  be  wholly  strange  and  new.  It  shall  exclude  all 
other  being.  You  take  the  way  from  man,  not  to  man.  All 
persons  that  ever  existed  are  its  fugitive  ministers.  There 
shall  be  no  fear  in  it.  Fear  and  hope  are  alike  beneath  it. 
It  asks  nothing.  There  is  somewhat  low  even  in  hope.  We 
are  then  in  vision.  There  is  nothing  that  can  be  called 
gratitude  nor  properly  joy.  The  soul  is  raised  over  passion. 
It  seeth  identity  and  eternal  causation.  It  is  a  perceiving 
that  Truth  and  Right  are.  Hence  it  becomes  a  Tranquillity 
out  of  the  knowing  that  all  things  go  well.  Vast  spaces  of 
nature,  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  the  South  Sea;  vast  intervals 
of  time,  years,  centuries,  are_pf  no  account.  This  which  I 
think  and  feel,  underlay  thaf  former  state  of  life  and  circum 
stances,  as  it  does  underlie  my  present,  and  will  always 
all  circumstance,  and  what  is  called  life,  and  what  is  called 
death. 

Life  only  avails,  not  the  having  lived.  Power  ceases  in 
the  instant  of  repose;  it  resides  in  the  moment  of  transition 
from  a  past  to  a  new  state;  in  the  shooting  of  the  gulf; 
in  the  darting  to  an  aim.  This  one  fact  the  world  hates, 
that  the  soul  becomes;  for  that  forever  degrades  the  past; 
turns  all  riches  to  poverty,  all  reputation  to  a  shame;  con 
founds  the  saint  with  the  rogue;  shoves  Jesus  and  Judas 
equally  aside.  Why  then  do  we  prate  of  self-reliance? 
Inasmuch  as  the  soul  is  present,  there  will  be  power  not  con 
fident  but  agent.  To  talk  of  reliance,  is  a  poor  external 


SELF-RELIANCE  165 

way  of  speaking.  Speak  rather  of  that  which  relies,  be 
cause  it  works  and  is.  Who  has  more  soul  than  I  masters 
me,  though  he  should  not  raise  his  finger.  Round  him  I 

''must  revolve  by  the  gravitation  of  spirits;  who  has  less,  I 
rule  with  like  facility.    We  fancy  it  rhetoric  when  we  speak 

'of  eminent  virtue.  We  do  not  yet  see  that  virtue  is  Height, 
and  that  a  man  or  a  conigany  of  men  plastic  and  permeable 
fb"  principles,  by  the  law  of  nature  must  overpower  and  ride 
all  cities. j nations.  kingsf  rich  men,  poets,  who  are  not. 
"This  is  the  ultimate  fact;  which' we "  so  quickly"  reach  on 
this  as  on  every  topic,  the  resolution  of  all  into  the  ever- 
blessed  ONE.  Virtue  is  the  governor,  the  creator,  the 
reality.  All  things  real  are  so  by  so  much  of  virtue  as  they 
contain.  Hardship,  husbandry,  hunting,  whaling,  war,  elo 
quence,  personal  weight,  are  somewhat,  and  engage  my 
respect  as  examples  of  the  soul's  presence  and  impure  ac 
tion.  I  see  the  same  law  working  in  nature  for  conservation 
and  growth.  The  poise  of  a  planet,  the  bended  tree  re 
covering  itself  from  the  strong  wind,  the  vital  resources  of 
every  vegetable  and  animal,  are  also  demonstrations 
of  the  self-sufficing,  and  therefore  self -relying  soul.  All 
history  from  its  highest  to  its  trivial  passages,"  is  the  vari 
ous  record  of  this  power.  * 

Thus  all  concentrates:  let  us  not  rove;  let  us  sit  at  home 
with  the  cause.  Let  us  stun  and  astonish  the  intruding 
rabble  of  men  and  books  and  institutions  by  a  simple  dec 
laration  of  the  divine  fact.  Bid  them  take  their  shoes  from 
off  their  feet,  for  God  is  here  within.  Let  our  simplicity 
judge  them,  and  our  docility  to  our  own  law  demonstrate 
the  poverty  of  nature  and  fortune  beside  our  native  riches. 

But  now  we  are  a  mob.  Man  does  not  stand  in  awe  of 
man,  nor  is  the  soul  admonished  to  slay  at  Jibing.  |to  put 
itself  in  communication  with  the  internal  ocean,  but  it  goes 
abroad  to  beg  a  cup  of  water  of  the  urns  of  men.  We  must 
go  aioneT  Isolation  must  precede  true  society.  I  like  the 
silent  church  before  the  service  begins,  better  than  any 
preaching.  How  far  off,  how  cool,  how  chaste  -the  persons 
look,  begirt  each  one  with  a  precinct  or  sanctuary!  So 
let  us  always  sit.  Why  should  we  assume  the  faults  of  oui 


/t 

/I 
/   f 


166  SELF-RELIANCE 

friend,  or  wife,  or  father,  or  child,  because  they  sit  around 
our  hearth,  or  are  said  to  have  the  same  blood?  All  men 
have  my  blood,  and  I  have  all  men's.  Not  for  that  will  I 
adopt  their  petulance  or  folly,  even  to  the  extent  of  being 
ashamed  of  it.  But  your  isolation  must  not  be  mechanical, 
but  spiritual,  that  is,  must  be  elevation.  At  times  the  whole 
world  seems  to  be  in  conspiracy  to  importune  you  with 
emphatic  trifles.  Friend,  client,  child,  sickness,  fear,  want, 
charity,  all  knock  at  once  at  thy  closet-door  and  say,  "Come 
out  unto  us."  —  Do  not  spill  thy  soul;  do  not  all  descend; 
keep  thy  state;  stay  at  home  in  thine  own  heaven;  come 
not  for  a  moment  into  their  facts,  into  their  hubbub  of  con 
flicting  appearances,  but  let  in  the  light  of  thy  law  on  their 
confusion.  The  power  men  possess  to  annoy  me,  I  give 
them  by  a  weak  curiosity.  No  man  can  come  near  me 
but  through  my  act.  "What  we  love,  that  we  have;  but 
by  desire  we  bereave  ourselves  of  the  love." 

If  we  cannot  at  once  rise  to  the  sanctities  of  obedience  and 
faith,  let  us  at  least  resist  our  temptations,  let  us  enter  into 
the  state  of  war,  and  wake  Thor  and  Woden,  courage  and 
constancy,  in  our  Saxon  breasts.  This  is  to  be  done  in  our 
smooth  times  by  speaking  the  truth.  Check  this  lying  hos 
pitality  and  lying  affection.  Live  no  longer  to  the  expecta 
tion  ol  these  deceivecTand  deceiving  people  with  whom 
we  converse.  Say  to  them,  O  father,  0  mother,  0  wife, 

0  brother,  0  friend,  I  have  lived  with  you  after  appear 
ances  hitherto.     Henceforward  I   am  the  truth's.     Be  it 
known  unto  you  that  henceforward  I  obey  no  law  less  than 

he  eternal  law.    I  will  have  no  covenants  but  proximities. 

1  shall  endeavor  to  nourish  my  parents,  to  support  my 
family,  to  be  the  chaste  husband  of  one  wife,  —  but  these 
relations  I  must  fill  after  a  new  and  unprecedented  way. 

appeal  from  your  customs.  I  must  be  myself.  I  cannot 
break  myself  any  longer  from  you,  or  you.  If  you  can 
me  for  what  I  am,  we  shall  be  the  happier.  If  you 
cannot,  I  will  still  seek  to  deserve  that  you  should,  j  must 
I  will  not  hide  my  tastes  or  aversions.  I  will 
so  trust  that  what  is  deep  is  holy,  that  I  will  do  strongly 
before  the  sun  and  moon  whatever  inly  rejoices  me,  and 

%  L  »  Ju  i  M.<tA  l\  V  . 


SELF-RELIANCE  167 

the  heart  appoints.  If  you  are  noble,  I  will  love  you;  if 
you  are  not,  I  will  not  hurt  you  and  myself  by  hypocritical 
attentions.  If  you  are  true,  but  not  in  the  same  truth  with 
me,  cleave  to  your  companions;  I  will  seek  my  own.  I  do 
this  not  selfishly,  but  humbly  and  truly.  It  is  alike  your 
interest  and  mine  and  all  men's,  however  long  we  have  dwelt 
in  lies,  to  live  in  truth.  Does  this  sound  harsh  to-day? 
You  will  soon  love  what  is  dictated  by  your  nature  as  well 
as  mine;  and  if  we  follow  the  truth,  it  will  bring  us  out 
safe  at  last. — But  so  you  may  give  these  friends  pain.  Yes, 
but  I  cannot  sell  my  liberty  and  my  power,  to  save  their 
sensibility.  Besides,  all  persons  have  their  moments  of 
reason,  when  they  look  out  into  the  region  of  absolute  truth; 
then  will  they  justify  me  and  do  the  same  thing. 

The  populace  think  that  your  rejection  of  popular  stand 
ards  is  a  rejection  of  all  standard,  and  mere  antinomian- 
ism;  and  the  bold  sensualist  will  use  the  name  of  philosophy 
to  gild  his  crimes.  But  the  law  of  consciousness  abides. 
There  are  two  confessionals,  in  one  or  the  other  of  which  we 
must  be  shriven.  You  mayjfulfil  vour  round  of  duties  by 
ourself  in 'the  direct,  or  in  the  reftex  way.  Con- 
~you'  have  satisfied  your  relations  to  father, 
cousin,  neighbor,  town,  cat,  and  dog;  whether  any 
of  these  can  upbraid  you.  But  I  may  also  neglect  this 
reflex  standard,  and  absolve  me  to  myself.  I  have  my  own 
stern  claims  and  perfect  circle.  It  denies  the  name  of  duty 
to  many  offices  that  are  called  duties.  But  if  I  can  dis 
charge  its  debts,  it  enables  me  to  dispense  with  the  popular 
code.  If  any  one  imagines  that  this  law  is  lax,  let  him  keep 
its  commandment  one  day.  UW^\t  ^wW\it^t^ 

And  truly  it  demands  something  godlike  in  him  who^ 
has  cast  off  the  common  motives  of  humanity,  and  has  ven-f* 
tured  to  trust  himself  for  a  task-master.    High  be  his  heart, [ 
faithftil  his  wiTr,  clear  his  sight,  that  he  may  in  good  earnestj 
be  doctrine,  society,  law  to  himself,  that  a    simple  purpose 
may  be  to  him  as  strong  as  iron  necessity  is  to  others.   «/ 

If  any  man  consider  the  present  aspects  of  what  is  called 
by  distinction  society,  he  will  see  the  need  of  these  ethics. 
The  sinew  and  heart  of  man  seem  to  be  drawn  out,  and  we 


168  SELF-RELIANCE 

are    become    timorous    desponding    whimperers.     We    are 

^afraid  of  truth,  afraid  of  fortune,  afraid  of  death,  and 
afraid  of  each  other.  Our  age  yields  no  great  and  perfect 

""persons.  We  want  men  and  women  who  shall  renovate  life 
and  our  social  state,  but  we  see  that  most  natures  are  in 
solvent;  cannot  satisfy  their  own  wants,  have  an  ambition 
out  of  all  proportion  to  their  practical  force,  and  so  do 
lean  and  beg  day  and  night  continually.  Our  housekeeping 
is  mendicant;  our  arts,  our  occupations,  our  marriages,  our 
religion  we  have  not  chosen,  but  society  has  chosen  for  us. 
We  are  parlor  soldiers.  The  rugged  battle  of  fate,  where 
strength  is  born,  we  shun. 

If  our  young  men  miscarry  in  their  first  enterprises, 
they  lose  all  heart.  If  the  young  merchant  fails,  men  say 
he  is  ruined.  If  the  finest  genius  studies  at  one  of  our  col 
leges,  and  is  not  installed  in  an  office  within  one  year  after 
wards  in  the  cities  or  suburbs  of  Boston  or  New  York,  it 
seems  to  his  friends  and  to  himself  that  he  is  right  in  being 
disheartened  and  in  complaining  the  rest  of  his  life.  A 
sturdy  lad  from  New  Hampshire  or  Vermont,  who  in  turn 
tries  all  the  professions,  who  teams  it,  farms  it,  peddles, 
keeps  a  school,  preaches,  edits  a  newspaper,  goes 
gress,  buys  a  township,  and  so  forth,  in  successive  yeau 
always,  like  a  cat,  falls  on  his  feet,  is  worth  a  hundred  of 
these  city  dolls.  He  walks  abreast  with  his  days,  and  feels 
no  shame  in  not  "studying  a  profession/'  for  he  does  not 
postpone  his  life,  but  lives  already.  He  has  not  one  chance, 
but  a  hundred  chances.  Let  a  stoic  arise  who  shall  reveal 
the  resources  of  man,  and  tell  men  they  are  not  leaning 

jvyillows,  but  can  and  must  detach  themselves;  that  with  the 
exercise  of  self-trust,  new  powers  shall  appear;  that  a  man  is 

"'the  word  made  flesh,  born  to  shed  healing  to  the  nations; 
that  he  should  be  ashamed  of  our  compassion;  and  that  the 
moment  he  acts  from  himself,  tossing  the  laws,  the  books, 
idolatries,  and  customs  out  of  the  window,  we  pity  him  no 
more,  but  thank  and  revere  him; — and  that  teacher  shall 
restore  the  life  of  man  to  splendor,  and  make  his  name 
dear  to  all  History. 
It  is  easy  to  see  that  a  greater  self-reliance, — a_new  re- 


SELF-RELIANCE  169 

spectjor  the  dignity  in  man.— must  work  a  revolution  in 
all  tlieToffices  and  relations  of  men;  in  their  religion;  in  their 
education;  in  their  pursuits;  their  modes  of  living;  their 
association;  in  their  property;  in  their  speculative  views, 
1.  In  what  prayers  do  men  allow  themselves!  That  which 
they  call  a  holy  office,  is  not  so  much  as  brave  and  manly. 
Prayer  looks  abroad,  and  asks  for  some  foreign  addition  to 
come  through  some  foreign  virtue,  and  loses  itself  in  endless 
mazes  of  natural  and  supernatural,  and  mediatorial  ancl 
miraculous.  Prayer  that  craves  a  particular  commodity— 
any  thing  less  than  all  good,  is  vicious.  Prayer  is  the  con 
templation  of  the  facts  of  life  from  the  highest  point  of 
view.  It  is  the  soliloquy  of  a  beholding  and  jubilant  soul. 
It  is  the  spirit  of  God  pronouncing  his  works  good.  But 
prayer  as  a  means  to  effect  a  private  end,  is  theft  and  mean 
ness.  It  supposes  dualism  and  not  unity  in  nature  and  con 
sciousness.  As  soon  as  the  man  is  at  one  with  God,  he  will 
not  beg.  He  will  then  see  prayer  in  all  action.  The  prayer 
of  the  farmer  kneeling  in  his  field  to  weed  it,  the  prayer 
of  the  rower  kneeling  with  the  stroke  of  his  oar,  are  true 
prayers  heard  throughout  nature,  though  for  cheap  ends. 
Caratach,  in  Fletcher's  Bonduca,  when  admonished  to 
inquire  the  mind  of  the  god  Andate,  replies, 

"His  hidden  meaning  lies  in  our  endeavours, 
Our  valours  are  our  best  gods." 

Another  sort  of  false  prayers  are  our  regrets,  piscon- 
tgafr  is  the  want  of  self-reliance :  it  is  infirmity  ot  witl. 
Kegret  calamities,  if  you  can  thereby  Kelp  the  sufferer;  if 
not,  attend  your  own  work,  and  already  the  evil  begins  to 
be  repaired.  Our  sympathy  is  just  as  base.  We  come  to 
them  who  weep  foohsniy,  and  sit  down  and  cry  for  com 
pany,  instead  of  imparting  to  them  truth  and  health  in 
rough  electric  shocks,  putting  them  once  more  in  commun 
ication  with  the  soul.  The  secret  of  fortune  is  joy  in  our 
hands.  Welcome  evermore  to  gods  and  men  is  the 
self-helping  man.  For  him  all  doors  are  flung  wide.  Him 
all  tongues  greet,  all  honors  crown,  all  eyes  follow  with  de 
sire.  Our  love  goes  out  to  him  and  embraces  him,  because 


170  SELF-RELIANCE 

he  did  not  need  it.  We  solicitously  and  apologetically  caress 
and  celebrate  him,  because  he  held  on  his  way  and  scorned 
our  disapprobation.  The  gods  love  him,  because  men  hated 
him.  "To  the  persevering  mortal,"  said  Zoroaster,  "the 
blessed  Immortals  are  swift." 

As  men's  prayers  are  ajiisease  of  the  will,  so  are  their 
Breeds  a  disease  ot  the  intellect! They  say  with  those  foolish 
Israelites,  ".Let  not  (Jod  speak  to  us,  lest  we  die.  Speak 
thou,  speak  any  man  with  us,  and  we  will  obey."  Every 
where  I  am  bereaved  of  meeting  God  in  my  brother,  because 
he  has  shut  his  own  temple-doors,  and  recites  fables  merely 
of  his  brother's,  or  his  brother's  brother's  God.  Every  new 
mind  is  a  new  classification.  If  it  prove  a  mind  of  un 
common  activity  and  power,  a  Locke,  a  Lavoisier,  a,  Hutton, 
a  Bentham,  a  Spurzheim,  it  imposes  its  classification  on  other 
men,  and  lo!  a  new  system.  In  proportion  always  to  the 
depth  of  the  thought,  and  so  to  the  number  of  the  objects 
it  touches  and  brings  within  the  reach  of  the  pupil,  is  his 
complacency.  But  chiefly  is  this  apparent  in  creeds  and 
churches,  which  are  also  classifications  of  some  powerful 
mind  acting  on  the  great  elemental  thought  of  Duty,  and 
man's  relation  to  the  Highest.  Such  is  Calvinism,  Quaker 
ism,  Swedenborgianism.  The  pupil  takes  the  same  delight 
in  subordinating  every  thing  to  the  new  terminology,  that 
a  girl  does  who  has  just  learned  botany,  in  seeing  a  new 
earth  and  new  seasons  thereby.  It  will  happen  for  a  time, 
that  the  pupil  will  feel  a  real  debt  to  the  teacher, — will  find 
his  intellectual  power  has  grown  by  the  study  of  his  writings. 
This  will  continue  until  he  has  exhausted  his  master's  mind. 
But  in  all  unbalanced  minds  the  classification  is  idolized, 
passes  for  the  end,  and  not  for  a  speedily  exhaustible  means, 
so  that  the  walls  of  the  system  blend  to  their  eye  in  the 
remote  horizon  with  the  walls  of  the  universe;  the  lumi 
naries  of  heaven  seem  to  them  hung  on  the  arch  their  master 
built.  They  cannot  imagine  how  you  aliens  have  any  right 
to  see, — how  can  you  see;  "It  must  be  somehow  that  you 
stole  the  light  from  us."  They  do  not  yet  perceive,  that 
light  unsystematic,  indomitable,  will  break  into  any  cabin, 
even  into  theirs.  Let  them  chirp  awhile  and  call  it  their 


SELF-RELIANCE  171 

own.  If  they  are  honest  and  do  well,  presently  their  neat 
new  pinfold  will  be  too  strait  and  low,  will  crack,  will  lean, 
will  rot  and  vanish,  and  the  immortal  light,  all  young  and 
joyful,  million-orbed,  million-colored,  will  beam  over  the 
universe  as  on  the  first  morning. 

2.  It  is  for  want  of  self-culture  that  the  idol  of  Travel 
ling,  the  idol  of  Italy,  of  England,  of  Egypt,  remains  for 
all  educated  Americans.  They  who  made  England,  Italy, 
or  Greece  venerable  in  the  imagination,  did  so  not  by  ram 
bling  round  creation  as  a  moth  round  a  lamp,  but  by  sticking 
fast  where  they  were,  like  an  axis  of  the  earth.  In  manly 
hours  we  feel  that  duty  is  our  place,  and  that  the  merry  men 
of  circumstance  should  follow  as  they  may.  The  soul  is  no 
traveler:  the  wise  man  stays  at  home  with  the  soul:  and " 
"when"  his~neeessities,  his  duties,  on  any  occasion  call  him 
from  his  house,  or  into  foreign  lands,  he  is  at  home  still, 
and  is  not  gadding  abroad  from  himself,  and  shall  make 
men  sensible  by  the  expression  of  his  countenance,  that  he 
goes  the  missionary  of  wisdom  and  virtue,  and  visits  cities 
and  men  like  a  sovereign,  and  not  like  an  interloper  or  a 
valet. 

I  have  no  churlish  objection  to  the  circumnavigation  of 
the  globe  for  the  purposes  of  art,  of  study,  and  of  benevo 
lence,  so  that  the  man  is  first  domesticated,  or  does  not  go 
abroad  with  the  hope  of  finding  somewhat  greater  than  he 
knows.  He  who  travels  to  be  amused,  or  to  get  somewhat 
which  he  does  not  carry,  travels  away  from  himself,  and 
grows  old  even  in  youth  among  old  things.  In  Thebes,  in 
Palmyra,  his  will  and  mind  have  become  old  and  dilapidated 
as  they.  He  carries  ruins  to  ruins. 

Travelling  is  a  fool's  paradise.  We  owe  to  our  first  jour 
neys  the  discovery  that  place  is  nothing.  At  home  I  dream 
that  at  Naples,  at  Rome,  I  can  be  intoxicated  with  beauty, 
and  lose  my  sadness.  I  pack  my  trunk,  embrace  my  friends, 
embark  on  the  sea  and  at  last  wake  up  in  Naples,  and  there 
beside  me  is  the  stern  Fact,  the  sad  Self,  unrelenting ,  iden 
tical.  thairTffpd  from  Fseek  the  Vatican,  and  the  palace^ 
I  affect  to  be  intoxicated  with  sights  and  suggestions,  but.  I 
am  not  intoxicated.  My  giant  goes  with  me  wherever  I  go. 


172  SELF-RELIANCE 

3.  But  the  rage  of  travelling  is  itself  only  a  symptom 
of  a  deeper  unsoundness,  affecting  the  whole  intellectual 
action.  The  intellect  is  vagabond,  and  the  universal  system 
of  education  fosters  restlessness.  Our  minds  travel  when 
our  bodies  are  forced  to  stay  at  home.  Wejimitafte :  and 
what  is  imitation  but  the  traveling  of  the  mTITcTT  Our 
houses  are  built  with  foreign  taste ;  our  shelves  are  garnished 
with  foreign  ornaments;  our  opinions,  our  tastes,  our  whole 
minds  lean,  and  follow  the  Past  and  the  Distant,  as  the  eyes 
of  a  maid  follow  her  mistress.  The  soul  created  the  arts 
wherever  they  have  flourished.  It  was  in  his  own  mind  that 
tha  artist  sought  his  model.  It  was  an  application  of  his 
own  thought  to  the  thing  to  be  done  and  the  conditions  to 
be  observed.  And  why  need  we  copy  the  Doric  or  the 
Gothic  model?  Beauty,  convenience,  grandeur  of  thought, 
and  quaint  expression,  are  as  near  to  us  as  to  any;  and  if 
the  American  artist  will  study  with  hope  and  love  the  pre 
cise  thing  to  be  done  by  him,  considering  the  climate,  the 
soil,  the  length  of  the  day,  the  wants  of  the  people,  the 
habit  and  form  of  the  government,  he  will  create  a  house  in 
which  all  these  will  find  themselves  fitted,  and  taste  and 
sentiment  will  be  satisfied  also. 

Insist  on  yourself;  never  imitate.  Your  own  gift  you 
can  present  every  moment  with  the  cumulative  force  of  a 
whole  life's  cultivation;  but  of  the  adopted  talent  of  another 
you  have  only  an  extemporaneous,  half  possession.  That 
which  each  can  do  best,  none  but  his  Maker  can  teach  him. 
No  man  yet  knows  what  it  is,  nor  can,  till  that  person  has 
exhibited  it.  Where  is  the  master  who  could  have  taught 
Shakspeare?  Where  is  the  master  who  could  have  instruc 
ted  Franklin,  or  Washington,  or  Bacon,  or  Newton?  Every 
great  man  is  an  unique.  The  Scipionism  of  Scipio  is  pre 
cisely  that  part  he  could  not  borrow.  If  anybody  will  tell 
me  whom  the  great  man  imitates  in  the  original  crisis  when 
he  performs  a  great  act,  I  will  tell  him  who  else  than  himself 
can  teach  him.  Shakspeare  will  never  be  made  by  the  study 
of  Shakspeare.  Do  that  which  is  assigned  thee,  and  thou 
Canst  not  hope  too  much  or  dare  too  much.  There  is  at  this 
moment,  there  is  for  me  an  utterance  bare  and  grand  as  that 


SELF-RELIANCE  173 

of  the  colossal  chisel  of  Phidias,  or  trowel  of  the  Egyptians, 
or  the  pen  of  Moses,  or  Dante,  but  different  from  all  these. 
Not  possibly  will  the  soul  all  rich,  all  eloquent,  with  thous 
and-cloven  tongue,  deign  to  repeat  itself;  but  if  I  can  hear 
what  these  patriarchs  say,  surely  I  can  reply  to  them  in  the 
same  pitch  of  voice:  for  the  ear  and  the  tongue  are  two  organs 
of  one  nature.  Dwell  up  there  in  the  simple  and  noble 
regions  of  thy  life,  obey  thy  heart,  and  thou  shalt  reproduce 
the  Foreworld  again. 

4.  As  our  Religion,  our  Education,  our  Art  look  abroad, 
so  does  our  spirit  of  society.  All  men  plume  themselves  on 
the  improvement  of  society,  and  no  man  improves. 

Society  never  advances.  It  recedes  as  fast  on  one  side 
as  it  gains  on  the  other.  Its  progress  is  only  apparent, 
like  the  workers  of  a  treadmill.  It  undergoes  continual 
changes:  it  is  barbarous,  it  is  civilized,  it  is  christianized, 
it  is  rich,  it  is  scientific;  but  this  change  is  not  amel 
ioration.  For  every  thing  that  is  given  something  is 
taken.  Society  acquires  new  arts,  and  loses  old  instincts. 
What  a  contrast  between  the  well-clad,  reading,  writing, 
thinking  American,  with  a  watch,  a  pencil,  and  a  bill  of  ex 
change  in  his  pocket,  and. the  naked  New  Zealander,  whose 
poverty  is  a  club,  a  spear,  a  mat,  and  an  undivided  twenti 
eth  of  a  shed  to  sleep  under!  But  compare  the  health  of 
the  two  men,  and  you  shall  see  that  his  aboriginal  strength 
the  white  man  has  lost.  If  the  traveller  tell  us  truly,  strike 
the  savage  with  a  broad  axe,  and  in  a  day  or  two  the  flesh 
shall  Unite  and  heal  as  if  you  struck  the  blow  into  soft  pitch, 
and  the  same  blow  shall  send  the  white  to  his  grave. 

The  civilized  man  has  built  a  coach,  but  has  lost  the  use 
of  his  feet.  He  is  supported  on  crutches,  but  loses  so  much 
support  of  muscle.  He  has  got  a  fine  Geneva  watch,  but  lie 
has  lost  the  skill  to  tell  the  hour  by  the  sun.  A  Greenwich 
nautical  almanac  he  has,  and  so  being  sure  of  the  information 
when  he  wants  it,  the  man  in  the  street  does  not  know  a  star 
in  the  sky.  The  solstice  he  does  not  observe;  the  equinox 
he  knows  as  little;  and  the  whole  bright  calendar  of  the  year 
is  without  a  dial  in  his  mind.  His  note  books  impair  his 
memory;  his  libraries  overload  his  wit;  the  insurance-office 


174  SELF-RELIANCE 

increases  the  number  of  accidents;  and  it  may  be  a  question 
whether  machinery  does  not  encumber;  whether  we  have  not 
lost  by  refinement  some  energy,  by  a  Christianity  entrenched 
in  establishments  and  forms  some  vigor  of  wild  virtue.  For 
every  stoic  was  a  stoic;  but  in  Christendom  where  is  the 
Christian  ? 

There  is  no  more  deviation  in  the  moral  standard  than 
in  the  standard  oi  height  or  bulk.  NcT  greater  men  are  now 
than  ever  were.  A  singular  equality  may  be  observed 
between  the  great  men  of  the  first  and  of  the  last  ages;  nor 
can  all  the  science,  art,  religion,  and  philosophy  of  the  nine 
teenth  century  avail  to  educate  greater  men  than  Plutarch's 
heroes,  three  or  four  and  twenty  centuries  ago.  Not  in_time 
is  the  race  progressive.  Phocion,  Socrates,  Anaxagoras, 
Diogenes,  are  great  men,  but  they  leave  no  class.  He  who 
is  really  of  their  class  will  not  be  called  by  their  name,  but 
be  wholly  his  own  man,  and  in  his  turn  the  founder  of  a 
sect.  The  arts  and  inventions  of  each  period  are  only  its 
costume,  and  do  not  invigorate  men.  The  harm  of  the  im 
proved  machinery  may  compensate  its  good.  Hudson  and 
Behring  accomplished  so  much  in  their  fishing-boats,  as  to 
astonish  Parry  and  Franklin,  whose  equipment  exhausted 
the  resources  of  science  and  art.  Galileo,  with  an  opera- 
glass,  discovered  a  more  splendid  series  of  facts  than  any  one 
since.  Columbus  found  the  New  World  in  an  undecked 
boat.  It  is  curious  to  see  the  periodical  disuse  and  perish 
ing  of  means  and  machinery  which  were  introduced  with 
loud  laudation  a  few  years  or  centuries  before.  Tlh£  great 
genius  returns  to  essential  man.  We  reckoned  the  improve 
ments  of  war  among  the  triumphs  of  science,  and  yet  Napo 
leon  conquered  Europe  by  the  Bivouac,  which  consisted  of 
falling  back  on  naked  valor,  and  disencumbering  it  of  ,all 
aids.  The  Emperor  held  it  impossible  to  make  a  perfect 
army,  says  Las  Casas,  "without  abolishing  our  arms,  mag 
azines,  commissaries,  and  carriages;  until,  in  imitation  of  the 
Roman  custom,  the  soldier  should  receive  his  supply  of 
corn,  grind  it  in  his  hand-mill,  and  bake  his  bread  himself." 
_ Society  is  a  wave.  The  wave  moves  onward,  but  the 
water  of  which  it  is" composed  does  not.  The  same  particle 


SELF-RELIANCE  175 

does  not  rise  from  the  valley  to  the  ridge.  Its  unity  is  only 
phenomenal.  The  persons  who  make  up  a  nation  to-day, 
.next  year  die,  and  their  experience  with  them. 

And  so  the  reliance  on  Property,  including  the  reliance  on 
governments  which  protect  it,  is  the  want  of  self-reliance. 
Men  have  looked  away  from  themselves  and  at  things  so 
long,  that  they  have  come  to  esteem  what  they  call  the  soul's 
progress,  namely,  the  religious,  learned,  and  civil  institu 
tions,  as  guards  of  property,  and  they  deprecate  assaults  on 
these,  because  they  feel  them  to  be  assaults  on  property. 
Tbev  measure  their  esteem  of  each  other  by  what  each  has, 
tet"!io"trby  what  each  is.  But  a  cultivated  man  becomes 
ashamed  ol  Jus  property,  ashamed  of  what  he  has,  out  of 
new  respect  for  his  being.  Especially  he  hates  what  he  has, 
if  he  sees  that  it  is  accidental, — came  to  him  by  inheritance, 
or  gift,  or  crime;  then  he  feels  that  it  is  not  having;  it  does 
not  belong  to  him,  has  no  root  in  him,  and  merely  lies  there, 
because  no  revolution  or  no  robber  takes  it  away.  But 
that  which  a  man  is,  does  always  by  necessity  acquire,  and 
what  the  man  acquires  is  permanent  and  living  property, 
which  does  not  wait  the  beck  of  rulers,  or  mobs,  or  rev 
olutions,  or  fire,  or  storm,  or  bankruptcies,  but  perpetually 
renews  itself  wherever  the  man  is  put.  "Thy  lot  or  portion 
of  life,"  said  the  Caliph  AH,  "is  seeking  after  thee;  therefore 
be  at  rest  from  seeking  after  it."  Our  dependence  on  these 
foreign  goods  leads  us  to  our  slavish  respect  for  numbers. 
The  political  parties  meet  in  numerous  conventions;  the 
greater  the  concourse,  and  with  each  new  uproar  of  an 
nouncement,  The  delegation  from  Essex!  The  Democrats 
from  New  Hampshire!  The  Whigs  of  Maine!  the  young 
patriot  feels  himself  stronger  than  before  by  a  new  thous 
and  of  eyes  and  arms.  In  like  manner  the  reformers  sum 
mon  conventions,  and  vote  and  resolve  in  multitude.  But 
not  so,  0  friends!  will  the  God  deign  to  enter  and  inhabit 
you;  but  by  a  method  precisely  the  reverse.  Jt  is  onjy 
as  a  man  puts  off  from  himself  all  external  support  T  and 
stands  alone,  that  I  see  him  to  be  strong  and  to  prevail.  He 
is  weaker  by  every  recruit  to  his  banner.  Is  not  a  man 
better  than  a  town?  Ask  nothing  of  men.  and  in  thp  end- 


176  SELF-RELIANCE 

less  mutation,  thou  only  firm  column  must  appear  the  up 
holder  of  all  that  surrounds  thee.  He  who  knows  that  power 
is  in  the  soul,  that  he  is  weak  only  because  he  has  looked 
for  good  out  of  him  and  elsewhere,  and  so  perceiving,  throws 
himself  unhesitatingly  on  his  thought,  instantly  rights  him 
self,  stands  in  the  erect  position,  commands  his  limbs,  works 
miracles;  just  as  a  man  who  stands  on  his  feet  is  stronger 
than  a  man  who  stands  on  his  head. 

So  use  all  that  is  called  Fortune.  Most  men  gamble  with 
her,  and  gain  all,  and  lose  all,  as  her  wheel  rolls.  But  do 
thou  leave  as  unlawful  these  winnings,  and  deal  with  Cause 
and  Effect,  the  chancellors  of  God.  In  the  Will  work  and  ac 
quire,  and  thou  hast  chained  the  wheel  of  Chance,  and 
shall  always  drag  her  after  thee.  A  political  victory,  a 
rise  of  rents,  the  recovery  of  your  sick,  or  the  return  of 
your  absent  friend,  or  some  other  quite  external  event,  raises 
your  spirits,  and  you  think  good  days  are  preparing  for  you. 
Do  not  believe  it.  It  can  never  be  so.  Nothing  can  bring 
you  peace  but  yourself.  Nothing  can  bring  you  peace  but 
the  triumph  of  principles. 


VllJf 

COMPENSATION 

/ 

EVER  since  I  was  a  bov^-I  have  wished  to  write  a  dis 
course  on  Compensation:  for  it  seemed  to  me  when  very 
young,  that,  on  this  subject,  Life  was  ahead  of  theology, 
and  the  people  knew  more  than  the  preachers  taught.  The 
documents,  too,  from  which  the  doctrine  is  to  be  drawn, 
charmed  my  fancy  by  their  endless  variety,  and  lay  always 
before  me,  even  in  sleep;  for  they  are  the  tools  in  our  hands, 
the  bread  in  our  basket,  the  transactions  of  the  street,  the 
farm,  and  the  dwelling-house,  the  greetings,  the  relations, 
the  debts  and  credits,  the  influence  of  character,  the  nature 
and  endowment  of  all  men.  It  seemed  to  me  also  that  in  it 
might  be  shown  men  a  ray  of  divinity,  the  present  action  of 
the  Soul  of  this  world,  clean  from  all  vestige  of  tradition, 
and  so  the  heart  of  man  might  be  bathed  by  an  innundation 
of  eternal  love,  conversing  with  that  which  he  knows  was 
always  and  always  must  be,  because  it  really  is  now.  It 
appeared,  moreover,  that  if  this  doctrine  could  be  stated^ 
terms  with  any  resemblance  to  those  bright  intuitions', in 
which  this  t ruth4s-sometimes--mv^afed-4o-4^v4t^woT[tGt'l)e  a 
star  in  many  dark  hours -undr-erooked  passages  in  our  jour 
ney,  that  would  not  suffer  us  to  lose  our  way. 

I  was  lately  confirmed  in  these  desires  "'by-hearing  a  ser 
mon  at  church.  The  preacher,  a  man  esteemed  for  his 
orthodoxy,  enfolded  in  the  ordinary  manner  the  doctrine  of 
the  Last  Judgment.  He  assumed  that  judgment  is  not  ex 
ecuted  in  this  world;  that  the  wicked  are  successful;  that  the 
good  are  miserable;  and  then  urged  from  reason  and  from 
Scripture  a  compensation  to  be  made  to  both  parties  in  the 
next  life.  No  offence  appeared  to  be  taken  by  the  congre 
gation  at  this  doctrine.  As  far  as  I  could  observe,  when 

177 


178  COMPENSATION 

the  meeting  broke  up,  they  separated  without  remark  on  the 
sermon. 

Yet  what  was  the  import  of  this  teaching  ?  What  did  the 
preacher  mean  by  saying  that  the  good  are  miserable  in  the 
present  life?  Was  it  that  houses  and  lands,  offices,  wine, 
horses,  dress,  luxury,  are  had  by  unprincipled  men,  whilst 
the  saints  are  poor  and  despised;  and  that  a  compensation 
is  to  be  made  to  these  last  hereafter,  by  giving  them  the 
like  gratifications  another  day, — bankstock  and  doubloons, 
venison  and  champagne?  This  must  be  the  compensation 
intended;  for  what  else?  Is  it  that  they  are  to  have  leave 
to  pray  and  praise?  to  love  and  serve  men?  Why,  that 
they  can  do  now.  The  legitimate  inference  the  disciple 
would  draw,  was :  "We  are  to  have  such  a  good  time  as  the 
sinners  have  now"_L— or.  to  push  it  to  its  extreme  import: 
"You  sin  now;  we  shalTsm  by  and  by:  we  would  sin  now,  if 
we  could;  not  being  successful,  we  expect  our  revenge  to 
morrow." 

-The  fallacy  lay  in  the  immense  concession  that  the  bad 
are  successful;  that  justice  is  not  done  now.  The  blind 
ness  of  the  preacher  consisted  in  deferring  to  the  base  esti 
mate  of  the  market  of  what  constitutes  a  manly  success, 
instead"  of  owlff i uil Fhig-ftnd  convicting  {he:  world  from  the 
truth;  announcing  the  Presence  .of  the  Soul,  the  omnipo 
tence  of  the  Will;  and  so  establishing  trie  standard  of  good 
and  ill,  of  success  and  falsehood,  and  summoning  the  dead 
to  its  present  tribunal. 

I  find  a  similar  ba~s!Ttorie-in  the  popular  religious  works 
of  the  day,  and  the  same  doctrines  assumed  by  the  literary 
men  when  occasionally  they  treat  the  related  topics.  I 
think  that  our  popular  theology  has  gained  in  decorum,  and 
not  in  principle,  over  the  superstitions  it  has  displaced. 
But  men  are  better  than  this  theology.  Their  daily  life 
gives  it  the  lie.  Every  ingenious  and  aspiring  soul  leaves 
the  doctrine  behind  him  in  his  own  experience;  and  all  men 
feel  sometimes  the  falsehood  which  they  cannot  demonstrate. 
For  men  are  wiser  than  they  know.  That  which  they  hear 
in  schools  and  pulpits  without  afterthought,  if  said  in  con 
versation  would  probably  be  questioned  in  silence.  If  a 


COMPENSATION  179 

man  dogmatize  in  aonixed  company  on  Providence-and-trTe 
divine  laws,  he  is  answere^~tjy-a-silenca3vhich  conveys  well 
enough  to  an  observer  the  dissatisfaction  of  the  hearer,  but 
his  incapacity  to  make  his  own, statement. 

I  shall  attempt  in  this  and:  tire  foltowing  chapter  to  record 
some  facts  that  indicate  the  path  of  the  law  of  Compensa 
tion;  happy  beyond  my  expectation,  if  I  shall  truly  draw 
the  smallest  arc  of  this  circle. 

Polarity,  or  action  and  reaction,  we  meet  in  every  part 
of  nature;  in  darkness  and  light;  in  heat  and  cold;  in  the 
ebb  and  flowSsf  waters;  in  male  and  female;  in  the  inspi 
ration  and  expiration  of  plants  and  animals;  in  the  systole 
and  diastole  of  the  heart;  in  the  undulations  of  fluid  and  of 
sound;  in  the  centrifugal  and  centripetal  gravity;  in  elec 
tricity,  galvanism,  and  chemical  affinity.  Superinduce  mag 
netism  at  one  end  of  a  needle,  the  opposite  magnetism  takes 
place  at  the  other  end.  If  the  south  attracts,  the  north  re 
pels.  To  empty,  here,  you  must  condense  there.  An  inevit 
able  cttrafem  bisects  nature,  so  that  each  thing  is  a  half,  and 
suggests  another  thing  to  make  it  whole;  as  spirit,  matter; 
man,  woman;  subjective,  objective;  in,  out;  upper/under; 
motion,  rest;  yea,  nay. 

Whilst  the  world  is  thus  dual,  so  is  every  one  of  its  parts. 
The  entire  system  of  things  gets  represented  in  every  par 
ticle.  There  is  somewhat  that  resembles  the  ebb  and  flow 
of  the  sea,  day  and  night,  man  and  woman,  in  a  single  needle 
of  the  pine,  in  a  kernel  of  corn,  in  each  individual  of  every 
animal  tribe.  The  reaction  so  grand  in  the  elements  is 
repeated  within  these  small  boundaries.  For  example,  in 
the  animal-  kingdom,  the  physiologist  has  observed  that  no 
creatures  are  favorites,  but  a  certain  compensation  balances 
every  gift  and  every  defect.  A  surplusage  given  to  one 
part  is  paid  out  of  a  reduction  from  another  part  of  the  same 
creature.  If  the  head  and  neck  are  enlarged,  the  trunk  and 
extremities  are  cut  short. 

The-theory  of  the  mechanic  forces  is  another  example. 
What  we  gain  in  power  is  lost  in  time;  and  the  converse. 
The  periodic  or  compensating  errors  of  the  planets  is  an 
other  instance.  The  influences  of  climate 'and  soil  in  poli- 


180  COMPENSATION 

tical  history  are  another.  The  cold  climate  invigorates;  the 
barren  soil  does  not  breed  fevers,  crocodiles,  tigers,  or 
scorpions. 

The  same  dualism  underlies  the  nature  and  condition  of 
man.  Every  excess  causes  a  defect;  every  defect  an  ex 
cess.  Every  sweet  hath  its  sour;  every  evil  its  good. 
Every  facurty,.which  is  a  receiver- of  pleasure,  has  an  equal 
penalt^ put  on  its  abuse.  It  is  to  answer  for  its  moderation 
with  its  life.  For  every  grain  of  wit  there  is  a  grain  of  folly. 
For  eTery  thing  you  have  missed,  you  have  gained  some- 

;  thing  else;  and  for  every  thing  you  gain,  you  lose  something. 

.;  If  riches  increase,  they  are  increased  that  use  them.  .If 

5  the  gatherer  gathers  too  much,  nature  takes  out  of  the  man 
what  she  puts  into  his  chest;  swells  the  estate,  but  kills  the 
owner.  Nature  hates  monopolies  and  exceptions.  The 
waves  of  the  sea  do  not  more  speedily  seek  a  level  from  their 
loftiest  tossing,  than  the  varieties  of  condition  tend  to  equal 
ize  themselves.  There  is  always  some  levelling  circumstance, 
that  puts  down  the  overbearing/the  strong,  the  rich,  the  for 
tunate,  substantially  on  the  same  ground  with  all  others. 
Is  a  man  too  stron'g  and  fierce  for  society,  and  by  temper 
and  position  a  bad  citizen, — a  morose  ruffian  with  a  dash  of 
th3  pirate  in  him; — nature  sends  him  a  troop  of  pretty  sons 
and  daughters,  who  are  getting  along  in  the  dame's  classes  at 
the  village-school,  and  love  and  .fear  for  them  smooths  his 
grim  scowl  to  courtesy.  Thus  she  contrives  to  intenerate 
the  granite  and  feldspar,  takes  the  boar  out  and  puts  the 

Jamb  in,  and  keeps  her  balance  true. 

The  farmer  imagines  power  and  place  are  fine  things,.  But 
the  President  has  paid  dear  for  his  White  House.  It  has 
commonly  cost  him  all  his  peace  and  the  best  of  his  manly 
attributes.  To  preserve  for  a  short  time  so  conspicuous  an 
appearance  before  the  world,  he  is  content  to  eat  dust  before 
the  real  masters,  Who  stand  erect  behind  the  throne.  Or, 
do  men  desire  the  more  substantial  and  permanent  grandeur 
of  genius?  Neither  has  this  an  immunity.  He  who  by 
force  of  will  or  of  thought  is  great,  and  overlooks  thousands, 
has  the  responsibility  of  overlooking.  With  every  influx 
of  light  comes  new  danger.  Has  he  light  ?  he  must  bear  wit- 


COMPENSATION  181 

ness  to  the  light,  and  always  outrun  that  sympathy  which 
gives  him  such  keen  satisfaction,  by  his  fidelity  to  new  reve 
lations  of  the  incessant  soul.  He  must  hate  father  and  mother, 
wife  and  child.  Has  he  all  that  the  world  loves  and  admires 
and  covets?  he  must  cast  behind  him  their  admiration,  and 
afflict  them  by  faithfulness  to  his  truth,  and  become  a  by 
word  and  a  hissing. 

This  Law  writes  the  laws  of  cities  and  nations.  It  will 
not  be  baulked  of  its  end  in  the  smallest  iota.  It  is  in 
vain  to  build  or  plot  or  combine  against  it.  Things  refuse 
to  be  mismanaged  long.  Res  nolunt  diu  male  administrari. 
Though  no  checks  to  a  new  evil  appear,  the  checks  exist,  and 
will  appear.  If  the  government  is  cruel,  the  governor's 
life  is  not  safe.  If  you  tax  too  high,  the  revenue  will  yield 
nothing.  If  you  make  the  criminal  code  sanguinary,  juries 
will  not  convict.  Nothing  arbitrary,  nothing  artificial  can  en 
dure.  The  true  life  and  satisfactions  of  man  seem  to  elude 
the  utmost  rigors  or  felicities  of  condition,  and  to  establish 
themselves  with  great  indifferency  under  all  varieties  of 
circumstance.  Under  all  governments  the  influence  of  char 
acter  remains  the  same, — in  Turkey  and  in  New  England 
about  alike.  Under  the  primeval  despots  of  Egypt,  history 
honestly  confesses  that  man  must  have  been  as  free  as  cul 
ture  could  make  him. 

These  appearances  indicate  the  fact  that  the  universe  is 
represented  in  every  one  of  its  particles.  Every  thing  in 
nature  contains  all  the  powers  of  nature.  Every  thing  is 
made  of  one  hidden  stuff;  as  the  naturalist  sees  one  type 
under  every  metamorphosis,  and  regards  a  horse  as  a  running 
man,  a  fish  as  a  swimming  man,  a  bird  as  a  flying  man,  a 
tree  as  a  rooted  man.  Each  new  form  repeats  not  only  the 
main  character  of  the  type,  but  part  for  part  all  the  details, 
all  the  aims,  furtherances,  hinderances,  energies,  and  whole 
system  of  every  other.  Every  occupation,  trade,  art,  trans 
action,  is  a  compend  of  the  world,  and  a  correlative  of 
every  other.  Each  one  is  an  entire  emblem  of  human  life; 
of  its  good  and  ill,  its  trials,  its  enemies,  its  course,  and  its 
end.  And  each  one  must  somehow  accommodate  the  whole 
man,  and  recite  all  his  destiny. 


182  COMPENSATION 

The  world  globes  itself  in  a  drop  of  dew.  The  micro 
scope  cannot  find  the  animalcule  which  is  less  perfect  for 
being  little.  Eyes,  ears,  taste,  smell,  motion,  resistance, 
appetite,  and  organs  of  reproduction  that  take  hold  on  eter 
nity, — all  find  room  to  consist  in  the  small  creature.  So  do 
we  put  our  life  into  every  act.  The  true  doctrine  of 
omnipresence  is,  that  God  reappears  with  all  his  parts  in 
every  moss  and  cobweb.  The  value  of  the  universe  con 
trives  to  throw  itself  into  every  point.  If  the  good  is  there, 
so  is  the  evil;  if  the  affinity,  so  the  repulsion;  if  the  force,  so 
the  limitation. 

Thus  is  the  universe  alive.  All  things  are  moral.  That 
soul  which  within  us  is  a  sentiment,  outside  of  us  is  a  law. 
We  feel  its  inspirations;  out  there  in  history  we  can  see  its 
fatal  strength.  It  is  almighty.  All  nature  feels  its  grasp. 
"It  is  in  the  world,  and  the  world  was  made  by  it."  It  is 
eternal,  but  it  enacts  itself  in  time  and  space.  Justice  is 
not  postponed.  A  perfect  equity  adjusts  its  balance  in  ail 
parts  of  life.  Ot  Kvftoi  Atos  da  evTrtVrovo-i.  The  dice  of 
God  are  always  loaded.  The  world  looks  like  a  multiplica 
tion-table  or  a  mathematical  equation,  which,  turn  it  how 
you  will,  balances  itself.  Take  what  figure  you  will,  its 
exact  value,  nor  more  nor  less,  still  returns  to  you.  Every 
secret  is  told,  every  crime  is  punished,  every  virtue  re 
warded,  every  wrong  redressed,  in  silence  and  certainty. 
What  we  call  retribution,  is  the  universal  necessity  by  which 
the  whole  appears  wherever  a  part  appears.  If  you  see 
smoke,  there  must  be  a  fire.  If  you  see  a  hand  or  a  limb, 
you  know  that  the  trunk  to  which  it  belongs  is  there  behind. 

Every  act  .rewards  itself,  or,  in  other  words,  integrates 
itself,  in  a  twofold  manner;  first,  in  the  thing,  or  in  real  nat 
ure;  and  secondly,  in  the  circumstance,  or  in  apparent 
nature.  Men  call  the  circumstance  the  retribution.  The 
causal  retribution  is  in  the  thing,  and  is  seen  by  the  soul. 
The  retribution  in  the  circumstance  is  seen  by  the  under 
standing;  it  is  inseparable  from  the  thing,  but  is  often 
spread  over  a  long  time,  and  so  does  not  become  distinct 
until  after  many  years.  The  specific  stripes  may,  follow 
late  after  the  offence,  but  they  follow  because  they  accom- 


COMPENSATION  183 

pany  it.  Crime  and  punishment  grow  out  of  one  stem. 
Punishment  is  a  fruit  that  unsuspected  ripens  within  the 
flower  of  the  pleasure  which  concealed  it.  Cause  and  effect, 
means  and  ends,  seed  and  fruit,  cannot  be  severed;  for 
the  effect  already  blooms  in  the  cause,  the  end  pre-exists  in 
the  means,  the  fruit  in  the  seed. 

Whilst  thus  the  world  will  be  whole,  and  refuses  to  be 
disparted,  we  seek  to  act  partially,  to  sunder,  to  appro 
priate;  for  example, — to  gratify  the  senses,  we  sever  the 
pleasure  of  the  senses  from  the  needs  of  the  character.  The 
ingenuity  of  man  has  been  dedicated  always  to  the  solu 
tion  of  one  problem, — how  to  detach  the  sensual  sweet,  the 
sensual  strong,  the  sensual  bright,  &c.,  from  the  moral  sweet, 
the  moral  deep,  the  moral  fair;  that  is,  again,  to  contrive  to 
cut  clean  off  this  upper  surface  so  thin  as  to  leave  it  bottom 
less;  to  get  a  one  end,  without  an  other  end.  The  soul  says, 
Eat;  the  body  would  feast.  The  soul  says,  The  man  and 
womafTsfeaUbe  one  flesh  and  one  soul;  the  body  would  join 
the  flesh  onlyT^The  soul  say£,  HaveTfeminioji  over  all  things 
to  the  ends  of  virtue;  the  body~would  have  tlie "power  over 
things  to  its  own  ends. 

The  soul  strives  amain  to  live  and  work  through  all 
things.  It  would  be  the  only  fact.  All  things  shall  be  added 
unto  it, — power,  pleasure,  knowledge,  beauty.  The  par 
ticular  man  aims  to  be  somebody;  to  set  up  for  himself; 
to  truck  and  higgle  for  a  private  good;  and,  in  particulars,  to 
ride,  that  he  may  ride;  to  dress,  that  he  may  be  dressed;  to 
eat,  that  he  may  eat;  and  to  govern,  that  he  may  be  seen. 
Men  seek  to  be  great;  they  would  have  offices,  wealth, 
power,  and  fame.  They  think  that  to  be  great  is  to  get  only 
one  side  of  nature — the  sweet,  without  the  other  side— the 
bitter.  •' 

Steadily  is  this  dividing  and  detaching  counteracted.  Up 
to  this  day,  it  must  be  owned,  no  projector  has  had  the 
smallest  success.  The  parted  water  reunites  behind  our 
hand.  Pleasure  is  taken  out  of  pleasant  things,  profit  out 
of  profitable  things,  power  out  of  strong  things,  the  moment 
we  seek  to  separate  them  from  the  whole.  We  can  no  more 
halve  things,  and  get  the  sensual  good  by  itself,  than  we  can 


184  COMPENSATION 

get  an  inside  that  shall  have  no  outside,  or  a  light  without 
a  shadow.  "Drive  out  nature  with  a  fork,  she  comes  run 
ning  back." 

Life  invests  itself  with  inevitable  conditions,  which  the 
unwise  seek  to  dodge,  which  one  and  another  brags  that 
he  does  not  .know1;  brags  that  they  do  not  touch  him;  — 
but  the  brag  is  on  his  lips,  the  conditions  are  in  his  soul. 
If  he  escapes  them  in  one  part,  they  attack  him  in  another . 
more  vital  par.t.  If  he  has  escaped  them  in  form  and  in  the 
appearance,  it  is  that  he  has  resisted  his  life  and  fled  from 
himself;  and  the  retribution  is  so  much  death.  So  signal  is 
the  failure  of  all  attempts  to  make  this  separation  of  the 
good  from  the  tax,  that  the  experiment  would  not  be  tried, — 
since  to  try  if  is  to  be  mad, — but  for  the  circumstance;  that 
when  {he  disease  begins  in  the  will,  of  rebellion  and  separa 
tion,  the  intellect  is  at  once  infected,  so  that  the  man  ceases  to 
see  God  whole  in  each  object,  but  is  able  to  see  the  sensual 
allurement  of  an  object,  and  not  see  the  sensual  hurt;  he 
sees  the .  mermaid 'g  head,  but  not  the  dragon's  tail;  and 
thinks  he  can  cut  off  that  which  he  would  have,  from  that 
which  he  would  not  have.  "How  secret  art  thou  who  dwell- 
est  in  the  highest  heavens  in  silence,  0  thou  only  great  God, 
sprinkling  with  an  unwearied  Providence  certain  penal  blind 
nesses  upon  such  as  have  unbridled  desires!"1 

The  human  soul  is  true  to  these  facts  in  the  painting  of 
fable,  of  history,  of  law,  of  proverbs,  of  conversation.  It 
finds  a  tongue  in  literature  unawares.  Thus  the  Greeks 
called  Jupiter,  Supreme  Mind;  but  having  traditionally 
ascribed  to  him  many  base  actions,  they  involuntarily  made 
amends  to  Reason,  by  tying  up  the  hands  of  so  bad  a  god. 
He  is  made  as  helpless  as  a  king  of  England.  Prometheus 
knows  one  secret,  which  Jove  must  bargain  for;  Minerva, 
another.  He  cannot  get  his  own  thunders;  Minerva  keeps 
the  key  of  them. 

"Of  all  the  gods  I  only  know  the  keys 
That  ope  the  solid  doors'  within  whose  vaults 
His  thunders  sleep." 

A  plain  confession  of  the  in-working  of  the  AH,  and  of  its 

1  St.  Augustine:    Confessions,  book  i. 


COMPENSATION  185 

moral  aim.  The  Indian  mythology  ends  in  the  same  ethics; 
and  indeed  it  would  seem  impossible  for  any  fable  to  be  in 
vented  and  get  any  currency  which  was  not  moral  Aurora 
forgot  to  ask  youth  for  her  lover,  and  so  though  Tithonus 
is  immortal,  he  is  old.  Achilles  is  not  quite  invulnerable; 
for  Thetis  held  him  by.  the  heel  when  she  dipped  him  in  the 
Styx,  and  the  sacred  waters  did  not  wash  that  part.  Sieg 
fried,  in  the  Niebelungen,  is  not  quite  immortal,  for  a  leaf 
fell  on  his  back  whilst  he  was  bathing  in  the  Dragon's  blood, 
and  that  spot  which  it  covered  is  mortal.  And  so  it  always 
is.  There  is  a  crack  in  every  thing  God  has  made.  Always, 
it  would  seem,  there  is  this  vindictive  circumstance  steal 
ing  in  at  unawares,  even  into  the  wild  poesy  in  which  the 
human  fancy  attempted  to  make  bold  holyday,  and  to  shake 
itself  free  of  the  old  laws, — this  backstroke,  this  kick  of  the 
gun,  certifying  that  the  law  is  fatal ;  that  in  Nature  nothing 
can  be  given,  all  things  are  sold. 

This  is  the  ancient  doctrine  of  Nemesis,  who  keeps  watch 
in  the  Universe,  and  lets  no  offence  go  unchastised.  The 
Furies,  they  said,  are  attendants  on  Justice,  and  if  the  sun 
in  heaven  should  transgress  his  path,  they  would  punish  him. 
The  poets  related  that  stone  walls,  and  iron  swords,  and 
leathern  thongs,  had  an  occult  sympathy  with  the  wrongs  of 
their  owners;  that  the  belt  which  Ajax  gave  Hector  dragged 
the  Trojan  hero  over  the  field  at  the  wheels  of  the  car  of 
Achilles;  and  the  sword  which  Hector  gave  Ajax  was  that  on 
whose  point  Ajax  fell.  They  recorded,  that  when  the 
Thasians  erected  a  statue  to  Theogenes,  a  victor  in  the 
games,  one  of  his  rivals  went  to  it  by  night,  and  endeavored 
to  throw  it  down  by  repeated  blows,  until  at  last  he  moved 
it  from  its  pedestal,  and  was  crushed  to  death  beneath  its 
fall. 

This  voice  of  fable  has  in  it  somewhat  divine.  It  came 
from  the  thought  above  the  will  of  the  writer.  That  is  the 
best  part  of  each  writer  which  has  nothing  private  in  it. 
That  is  the  best  part  of  each  which  he  does  not  know,  that 
which  flowed  out  of  his  constitution,  and  not  from  his  too 
active  invention ;  that  which  in  the  study  of  a  single  artist 
you  might  not  easily  find,  but  in  the  study  of  many  you 


186  COMPENSATION 

would  abstract  as  the  spirit  of  them  all.  Phidias  it  is  not, 
but  the  work  of  man  in  that  early  Hellenic  world,  that  I 
would  know.  The  name  and  circumstances  of  Phidias,  how 
ever  convenient  for  history,  embarrasses  when  we  come  to 
the  highest  criticism.  We  are  to  see  that  which  man  was 
tending  to  do  in  a  given  period,  and  was  hindered,  or,  if  you 
will,  modified  in  doing,  by  the  interfering  volitions  of  Phidias, 
of  Dante,  of  Shakspeare,  the  organ  whereby  man  at  the 
moment  wrought. 

Still  more  striking  is  the  expression  of  this  fact  in  the 
proverbs  of  all  nations,  which  are  always  the  literature  of 
Reason,  or  the  statements  of  an  absolute  truth  without 
.qualification.  Proverbs,  like  the  sacred  books  of  each  na 
tion,  are  the  sanctuary  of  the  Intuitions.  That  which  the 
droning  world,  chained  to  appearances,  will  not  allow  the 
realist  to  say  in  his  own  words,  it  will  suffer  him  to  say 
in  proverbs  without  contradiction.  And  this  law  of  laws, 
which  the  pulpit,  the  senate,  and  the  college  deny,  is  hourly 
preached  in  all  markets  and  all  languages  by  flights  of 
proverbs,  whose  teaching  is  as  true  arid  as  omnipresent  as 
that  of  birds  and  flies. 

All  things  are  double,  one  against  another. — Tit  for  tat; 
an  eye  for  an  eye;  a  tooth  for  a  tooth;  blood  for  blood; 
measure  for  measure;  love  for  love. — Give,  and  it  shall  be 
given  you. — He  that  watereth  shall  be  watered  himself. — 
What  will  you  have?  quoth  God;  pay  for  it,  and  take  it. — 
Nothing  venture,  nothing  ha ve  —  Thou  shalt  be  paid  exactly 
for  what  thou  hast  done,  no  more,  no  less. — Who  doth  not 
work  shall  not  eat. — Harm  watch,  harm  catch. — Curses 
always  recoil  on  the  head  of  him  who  imprecates  them. — . 
If  you  put  a  chain  around  the  neck  of  a  slave,  the  other  end 
fastens  itself  around  your  own. — Bad  counsel  confounds, 
the  adviser. — The  devil  is  an  ass. 

It  is  thus  written  because  it  is  thus  in  life.  Our  action 
is  overmastered  and  characterized  above  our  will  by 'the 
law  of  nature.  We  aim  at  a  petty  end, -quite  aside  from 
the  public  good,  but  our  act  arranges  itself  by  irresistible 
magnetism  in  a  line  with  the  poles  of  the  world. 

A  man  cannot  speak  but  he  judges  himself.    With  ,'his 


COMPENSATION  187 

will,  or  against  his  will,  he  draws  his  portrait  to  the  eye  of 
his  companions  by  every  word.  Every  opinion  reacts  on 
him  who  utters  it.  It  is  a  threadball  thrown  at  a  mark, 
but  the  other  end  remains  in  the  thrower's  bag.  Or  rather, 
it  is  a  harpoon  thrown  at  the  whale,  unwinding,  as  it  flies,  a 
coil  of  cord  in  the  boat;  and  if  the  harpoon  is  not  good,  or 
not  well  thrown,  it  will  go  nigh  to  cut  the  steersman  in  twain, 
or  to  sink  the  boat. 

You  cannot  do  wrong  without  suffering  wrong.  "No  man 
had  ever  a  point  of  pride  that  was  not  injurious  to  him," 
said  Burke.  The  exclusive  in  fashionable  life  does  not  see 
that  he  excludes  himself  from  enjoyment,  in  the  attempt  to 
appropriate  it.  The  exclusionist  in  religion  does  not  see 
that  he  shuts  the  door  of  heaven  on  himself,  in  striving  to 
shut  out  others.  Treat  men  as  pawns  and  ninepins,  and  you 
shall  suffer  as  well  as  they.  If  you  leave  out  their  heart, 
you  shall  lose  your  own.  The  senses  would  make  things  of 
all  persons;  of  women,  of  children,  of  the  poor.  The  vulgar 
proverb,  "I  will  get  it  from  his  purse  or  get  it  from  his  skin," 
is  sound  philosophy. 

All  infractions  of  love  and  equity  in  our  social  relations 
are  speedily  punished.  They  are  punished  by  Fear.  Whilst 
I  stand  in  simple  relations  to  my  fellow  man,  I  have  no  dis 
pleasure  in  meeting  him.  We  meet  as  water  meets  water, 
or  a  current  of  air  meets  another,  with  perfect  diffusion  and 
interpenet ration  of  nature.  But  as  soon  as  there  is  any 
departure  from  simplicity  and  attempt  at  halfness,  or  good 
for  me  that  is  not  good  for  him,  my  neighbor  feels  the 
wrong;  he  shrinks  from  me  as  far  as  I  have  shrunk  from 
him;  his  eyes  no  longer  seek  mine;  there  is  war  between  us; 
there  is  hate  in  him,  and  fear  in  me. 

All  the  old  abuses  in  society,  the  great  and  universal,  and 
the  petty -and  particular,  all  unjust  accumulations  of  prop 
erty  and  power,  are  avenged  in  the  same  manner.  Fear 
is  an  instructor  of  great  sagacity,  and  the  herald  of  all  rev 
olutions.  One  thing-  he  always  teaches,  that  there  is 
rottenness  where  he  appears.  He  is  a  carrion  crow;  and 
though,  you  see  *not  well  what  he  hovers  for,  there  is  death 
somewhere./  Our  property  is  timid,  our  laws  are  timid, 


188  COMPENSATION 

our  cultivated  clases  are  timid.  Fear  for  ages  has  boded  and 
mowed  and  gibbered  over  government  and  property.  That 
obscene  bird  is  not  there  for  nothing.  He  indicates  great 
wrongs,  which  must  be  revised. 

Of  the  like  nature  is  that  expectation  of  change  which 
instantly  follows  the  suspension  of  our  voluntary  activity. 
The  terror  of  cloudless  moon,  the  emerald  of  Polycrates, 
the  awe  of  prosperity,  the  instinct  which  leads  every  gen 
erous  soul  to  impose  on  itself  tasks  of  a  noble  asceticism 
and  vicarious  virtue,  are  the  tremblings  of  the  balance  of 
justice  through  the  heart  and  mind  of  man. 

Experienced  men  of  the  world  know  very  well  that  it  is 
always  best  to  pay  scot  and  lot  as  they  go  along,  and  that 
a  man  often  pays  dear  for  a  small  frugality.  The  borrower 
runs  in  his  own  debt.  Has  a  man  gained  any  thing  who  has 
reveived  a  hundred  favors  and  rendered  none  ?  Has  he  gained 
by  borrowing,  through  indolence  or  cunning,  his  neighbor's 
wares,  or  horses,  or  money?  There  arises  on  the  deed  the 
instant  acknowledgment  of  benefit  on  the  one  part,  and  of 
debt  on  the  other;  that  is,  of  superiority  and  inferiority. 
The  transaction  remains  in  the  memory  of  himself  and  his 
neighbor;  and  every  new  transaction  alters,  according  to  its 
nature,  their  relation  to  each  other.  He  may  soon  come  to 
,'  see  that  he  had  better  have  broken  his  own  bones  than  to 
have  ridden  in  his  neighbor's  coach,  and  that  "the  highest 
.price  he  can  pay  for  a  thing  is  to  ask  for  it." 

A  wise  man  will  extend  this  lesson  to  all  parts  of  life,  and 
know  that  it  is  always  the  part  of  prudence  to  face  every 
claimant,  and  pay  every  just  demand  on  your  time,  your 
talents,  or  your  heart.  Always  pay;  for,  first  or  last,  you 
must  pay  your  entire  debt.  Persons  and  events  may  stand 
for  a  time  between  you  and  justice,  but  it  is  only  a  post 
ponement.  You  must  pay  at  last  your  own  debt.  If  you 
are  wise,  you  will  dread  a  prosperity  which  only  loads  you 
with  more.  Benefit  is  the  end  of  nature.  But  for  every 
benefit  which  you  receive,  a  tax  is  levied.  He  is  great  who 
confers  the  most  benefits.  He  is  base, — and  that  is  the  one 
base  thing  in  the  universe, — to  receive  favors,  and  render 
none.  In  the  order  of  nature  we  cannot  render  benefits  to 


COMPENSATION  189 

those  from  whom  we  receive  them,  or  only  seldom.  But 
the  benefit  we  receive  must  be  rendered  again,  line  for  line, 
deed  for  deed,  cent  for  cent,  to  somebody.  Beware  of  too 
much  good  staying  in  your  hand.  It  will  fast  corrupt  and 
worm  worms.  Pay  it  away  quickly  in  some  sort. 

Labor  is  watched  over  by  the  same  pitiless  laws.  Cheap 
est,  say  the  prudent,  is  the  dearest  labor.  What  we  buy  in 
a  broom,  a  mat,  a  wagon,  a  knife,  is  some  application  of  good 
sense  to  a  common  want.  It  is  best  to  pay  in  your  land 
a  skilful  gardener,  or  to  buy  good  sense  applied  to  garden 
ing;  in  your  sailor,  good  sense  applied  to  navigation;  in  the 
house,  good  sense  applied  to  cooking,  sewing,  serving;  in 
your  agent,  good  sense  applied  to  accounts  and  affairs.  So 
do  you  multiply  your  presence,  or  spread  yourself  through 
out  your  estate.  But  because  of  the  dual  constitution  of 
all  things,  in  labor  as  in  life  there  can  be  no  cheating.  The 
thief  steals  from  himself.  The  swindler  swindles  himself. 
For  the  real  price  of  labor  is  knowledge  and  virtue,  whereof 
wealth  and  credit  are  signs.  These  signs,  like  paper-money, 
may  be  counterfeited  or  stolen,  but  that  which  they  rep 
resent,  namely,  knowledge  and  virtue,  cannot  be  counter 
feited  or  stolen.  These  ends  of  labor  cannot  be  answered 
but  by  real  exertions  of  the  mind,  and  in  obedience  to  pure 
motives.  The  cheat,  the  defaulter,  the  gambler,  cannot  ex 
tort  the  benefit,  cannot  extort  the  knowledge  of  material  and 
moral  nature,  which  his  honest  care  and  pains  yield  to  the 
operative.  The  law  of  nature  is,  Do  the  thing,  and  you  shall 
have  the  power :  but  they  who  do  not  the  thing  have  not  the 
power. 

Human  labor,  through  all  its  forms,  from  the  sharpening 
of  a  stake  to  the  construction  of  a  city  or  an  epic,  is  one  im 
mense  illustration  of  the  perfect  compensation  of  the  uni 
verse.  Every  where  and  always  this  law  is  sublime.  The 
absolute  balance  of  Give  and  Take,  the  doctrine  that  every 
thing  has  its  price;  and  if  that  price  is  not  paid,  not  that 
thing,  but  something  else;'  is  obtained,  and  that  it,  is  im 
possible  to  get  any  thing  without  its  price, — this  doctrine  is 
not  less  sublime  in  the  columns  of  a  ledger  than  in  the  bud 
gets  of  states,  in  the  laws  of  light  and  darkness,  in  all  the 


190  COMPENSATION 

action  and  reaction  of  nature.  I  cannot  doubt  that  the  high 
laws  which  each  man  sees  ever  implicated  in  those  processes 
with  which  he  is  conversant,  the  stern  ethics  which  sparkle 
on  his  chisel-edge,  which  are  measured  out  by  his  plumb  and 
foot-rule,  which  stand  as  manifest  in  the  footing  of  the  shop 
bill  as  in  the  history  of  a  state, — do  recommend  to  him  his 
trade,  and,  though  seldom  named,  exalt  his  business  to  his 
imagination. 

The  league  between  virtue  and  nature  engages  all  things 
to  assume  a  hostile  front  to  vice.  The  beautiful  laws  and 
substances  of  the  world  persecute  and  whip  the  traitor.  He 
finds  that  things  are  arranged  for  truth  and  benefit,  but  there 
is  no  den  in  the  wide  world  to  hide  a  rogue.  There  is  no 
such  thing  as  concealment.  Commit  a  crime,  and  the  earth 
is  made  of  glass.  Commit  a  crime,  and  it  seems  as  if  a  coat 
of  snow  fell  on  the  ground,  such  as  reveals  in  the  woods 
'the  track  of  every  partridge  and  fox  and  squirrel  and  mole. 
You  cannot  recall  the  spoken  word,  you  cannot  wipe  out  the 
foot-track,  you  cannot  draw  up  the  ladder,  so  as  to  leave  no 
inlet  or  clew.  Always  some  damning  circumstance  trans 
pires.  The  laws  and  substances  of  nature,  water,  snow, 
wind,  gravitation,  become  penalties  to  the  thief. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  law  holds  with  equal  sureness  for 
all  right  action.  Love,  and  you  shall  be  loved.  All  love  is 
mathematically  just,  as  much  as  the  two  sides  of  an  alge 
braic  equation.  The  good  man  has  absolute  good,  which  like 
fire  turns  every  thing  to  its  own  nature,  so  that  you  cannot 
do  him  any  harm;  but  as  the  royal  armies  sent  against  Napo 
leon,  when  he  approached,  cast  down  their  colors,  and  from 
enemies  became  friends,  so  do  disasters  of  all  kinds,  as  sick 
ness,  offence,  poverty,  prove  benefactors. 

"Winds  blow  and  waters  roll 
Strength  to  the  brave,  and  power  and  deity, 
Yet  in  themselves  are  nothing." 

The  good  are  befriended  even  by  weakness  and  defect.  As 
no  man  had  ever  a  point  of  pride  that  was  not  injurious  to 
him,  so  no  man  had  ever  a  defect  that  was  not  somewhere 
made  useful  to  him.  The  stag  in  the  fable  admired  his 


COMPENSATION  191 

horns  and  blamed  his  feet;  but  when  the  hunter  came,  his 
feet  saved  him,  and  afterwards,  caught  in  the  thicket,  his 
horns  destroyed  him.  Every  man  in  his  lifetime  needs  to 
thank  his  faults.  As  no  man  thoroughly  understands  a 
truth  until  first  he  has  contended  against  it,  so  no  man  has  a 
thorough  acquaintance  with  the  hinderances  or  talents  of 
men,  until  he  has  suffered  from  the  one,  and  seen  the  triumph 
of  the  other  over  his  own  want  of  the  same.  Has  he  a  de 
fect  of  temper  that  unfits  him  to  live  in  society?  Thereby 
he  is  .driven  to  entertain  himself  alone,  and  acquire  habits 
of  self-help;  and  thus,  like  the  wounded  oyster,  he  mends 
his  shell  with  pearl. 

Our  strength  grows  out  of  our  weakness.  Not  until  we  are 
pricked  and  stung  and  sorely  shot  at,  awakens  the  indignation 
which  "arms  itself  with  secret  forces.  A  great  man  is  always 
willing  to  be  little.  Whilst  he  sits  on  the  cushion  of  advan 
tages,  he  goes  to  sleep.  When  he  is  pushed,  tormented,  de 
feated,  he  has  a  chance  to  learn  something;  he  has  been  put 
on  his  wits,  on  his  manhood;  he  has  gained  facts;  learns  his 
ignorance;  is  cured  of  the  insanity  of  conceit;  has  got  moder 
ation  and  rear  skill.  The  wise  man  always  throws  himself 
on  the  side  of  his  assailants.  It  is  more  his  interest  than 
it  is  theirs  to  find  his  weak  point.  The  wound  cicatrizes 
and  falls  off  from  him,  like  a  dead  skin;  and  when  they 
would  triumph,  lo!  he  has  passed  on  invulnerable.  Blame 
is  safer  than  praise.  I  hate  to  be  defended  in  a  newspaper. 
As  long  as  all  that  is  said,  is  said  against  me,  I  feel  a  certain 
assurance  of  success.  But  as  soon  as  honied  words  of  praise 
are  spoken  for  me,  I  feel  as  one  that  lies  unprotected  before 
his  enemies.  In  general,  every  evil  to  which  we  do  not  suc 
cumb  is  a  benefactor.  As  the  Sandwich  Islander  believes 
that  the  strength  and  valor  of  the  enemy  he  kills  passes  into 
himself,  so  we  gain  the  strength  of  the  temptation  we  resist. 

The  same  guards  which  protect  us  from  disaster,  defect, 
and  enmity,  defend  us,  if  we  will,  from  selfishness  and  fraud. 
Bolts  and  bars  are  not  the  best  of  our  institutions,  nor  is 
shrewdness  in  trade  a  mark  of  wisdom.  Men  suffer  all 
their  life  long  under  the  foolish  superstition  that  they  can  be 
cheated^.  But  it  is  as  impossible  for  a  man  to  be  cheated  by 


192  COMPENSATION 

anyone  but  himself,  as  for  a  thing  to  be  and  not  to  be  at  the 
same  time.  There  is  a  third  silent  party  to  all  our  bargains. 
The  nature  and  soul  of  things  takes  on  itself  the  guaranty  of 
the  fulfilment  of  every  contract,  so  that  honest  service  can 
not  come  to  a  loss.  If  you  serve  an  ungrateful  master,  serve 
him  the  more.  Put  God  in  your  debt.  Every  stroke  shall 
be  repaid.  The  longer  the  payment  is  withholden,  the  better 
for  you;  for  compound  interest  on  compound  interest  is  the 
rate  and  usage  of  this  exchequer. 

The  history  of  persecution  is  a  history  of  endeavors  to 
cheat  nature,  to  make  water  run  up  hill,  to  twist  a  rope  of 
sand.  It  makes  no  difference  whether  the  actors  be  many  or 
one,  a  tyrant  or  a  mob.  A  mob  is  a  society  of  bodies  vol 
untarily  bereaving  themselves  of  reason  and  traversing  its 
work.  The  mob  is  man  voluntarily  descending  to  the  nature 
of  the  beast.  Its  fit  hour  of  activity  is  night.  Its  actions 
are  insane,  like  its  whole  constitution.  It  persecutes  a  prin 
ciple;  it  would  whip  a  right;  it  would  tar  and  feather  jus 
tice,  by  inflicting  fire  and  outrage  upon  houses  and  persons  of 
those  who  have  these.  It  resembles  the  prank  of  boys  who 
run  with  fire-engines  to  put  out  the  ruddy  aurora  streaming 
to  the  stars.  The  inviolate  spirit  turns  their  spite  against 
the  wrong-doers.  The  martyr  cannot  be  dishonored.  Every 
lash  inflicted  is  a  tongue  of  fame;  every  prison  a  more 
illustrious  abode;  every  burned  book  or  house  enlightens  the 
world;  every  suppressed  or  expunged  word  reverberates 
through  the  earth  from  side  to  side.  The  minds  of  men  are 
at  last  aroused;  reason  looks  out  and  justifies  her  own,  and 
malice  finds  all  her  work  vain.  It  is  the  whipper  who  is 
whipped,  and  the  tyrant  who  is  undone. 

Thus  do  all  things  preach  the  indifferency  of  circumstances. 
The  man  is  all.  Every  thing  has  two  sides,  a  good  and  an 
evil.  Every  advantage  has  its  tax.  I  learn  to  be  content. 
But  the  doctrine  of  compensation  is  not  the  doctrine  of  in 
differency.  The  thoughtless  say,  on  hearing  these  repre 
sentations:  What  boots  it  to  do  well?  there  is  one  event  to 
good  and  evil:  if  I  gain  any  good,  I  must  pay  for  it;  if  I 
lose  any  good,  I  gain  some  other;  all  actions  are  indifferent. 

t 


COMPENSATION  193 

There  is  a  deeper  fact  in  the  soul  than  compensation; 
to  wit,  its  own  nature.  The  soul  is  not  a  compensation,  but 
a  life.  The  soul  is.  Under  all  this  running  sea  of  circum 
stance,  whose  waters  ebb  and  flow  with  perfect  balance,  lies 
the  aboriginal  abyss  of  real  Being.  Existence,  or  God,  is  not 
a  relation,  or  a  part,  but  the  whole.  Being  is  the  vast  affirm 
ative,  excluding  negation,  self-balanced,  and  swallowing  up 
all  relations,  parts,  and  times,  within  itself.  Nature,  truth, 
virtue,  are  the  influx  from  thence.  Vice  is  the  absence  or 
departure  of  the  same.  Nothing,  Falsehood,  may  indeed 
stand  as  the  great  Night  or  shade,  on  which,  as  a  background, 
the  living  universe  paints  itself  forth ;  but  no  fact  is  begotten 
by  it;  it  cannot  work;  for  it  is  not.  It  cannot  work  any 
good;  it  cannot  work  any  harm.  It  is  harm,  inasmuch  as 
it  is  worse  not  to  be  than  to  be. 

We  feel  defrauded  of  the  retribution  due  to  evil  acts, 
because  the  criminal  adheres  to  his  vice  and  contumacy,  and 
does  not  come  to  a  crisis  or  judgment  anywhere  in  visible 
nature.  There  is  no  stunning  confutation  of  his  nonsense 
before  men  and  angels.  Has  he  therefore  outwitted  the 
law?  Inasmuch  as  he  carries  the  malignity  and  the  lie 
with  him,  he  so  far  deceases  from  nature.  In  some  manner 
there  will  be  a  demonstration  of  the  wrong  to  the  under 
standing  also;  but  should  we  not  see  it,  this  deadly  deduc 
tion  makes  square  the  eternal  account. 

Neither  can  it  be  said,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  gain 
of  rectitude  must  be  bought  by  any  loss.  There  is  no  pen 
alty  to  virtue;  no  penalty  to  wisdom;  they  are  proper  ad 
ditions  of  being.  In  a  virtuous  action,  I  properly  am;  in  a 
virtuous  act,  I  add  to  the  world;  I  plant  into  deserts  con 
quered  from  Chaos  and  Nothing,  and  see  the  darkness  re 
ceding  on  the  limits  of  the  horizon.  There  can  be  no  ex 
cess  to  love,  none  to  knowledge,  none  to  beauty,  when  these 
attributes  are  considered  in  the  purest  sense.  The  soul  re 
fuses  all  limits.  It  affirms  in  man  always  an  Optimism, 
never  a  Pessimism. 

His  life  is  a  progress,  and  not  a  station.  His  instinct  is 
trust.  Our  instinct  uses  "more"  and  "less"  in  application  to 
man.  always  of  the  presence  of  the  soul,  and  not  of  i*s  ab-> 


194  COMPENSATION 

sence:  the  brave  man  is  greater  than  the  coward;  the  true, 
the  benevolent,  the  wise,  is  more  a  man,  and  not  less,  than 
the  fool  and  knave.  There  is,  therefore,  no  tax  on  the  good 
of  virtue;  for  that  is  the  incoming  of  God  himself,  or  ab 
solute  existence,  without  any  comparative.  All  external 
good  has  its  tax;  and  if  it  came  without  desert  or  sweat, 
has  no  root  in  me,  and  the  next  wind  will  blow  it  away. 
But  all  the  good  of  nature  is  the  soul's,  and  may  be  had,  if 
paid  for  in  nature's  lawful  coin,  that  is,  by  labor,  which  the 
heart  and  the  head  allow.  I  no  longer  wish  to  meet  a  good 
I  do  not  earn — for  example,  to  find  a  pot  of  buried  gold — 
knowing  that  it  brings  with  it  new  responsibility.  I  do  not 
wish  more  external  goods, — neither  possessions,  nor  honors, 
nor  powers,  nor  persons.  The  gain  is  apparent,  the  tax  is 
certain.  But  there  is  no  tax  on  the  knowledge  that  the 
compensation  exists,  and  that  it  is  not  desirable  to  dig  up 
treasure.  Herein  I  rejoice  with  a  serene  eternal  peace.  I 
contract  the  boundaries  of  possible  mischief.  I  learn  the 
wisdom  of  St.  Bernard:  "Nothing  can  work  me  damage  ex 
cept  myself;  the  harm  that  I  sustain,  I  carry  about  with  me, 
and  never  am  a  real  sufferer  but  by  my  own  fault." 

In  the  nature  of  the  soul  is  the  compensation  for  the  in 
equalities  of  condition.  The  radical  tragedy  of  nature  seems 
to  be  the  distinction  of  More  and  Less.  How  can  Less  not 
feel  the  pain;  how  not  feel  indignation  or  malevolence  to 
wards  More  ?  Look  at  those  who  have  less  faculty,  and  one 
feels  sad,  and  knows  not  well  what  to  make  of  it.  Almost 
he  shuns  their  eye;  almost  he  fears  they  will  upbraid  God. 
What  should  they  do?  It  seems  a  great  injustice.  But 
face  the  facts,  and  see  them  nearly,  and  the  mountainous 
inequalities  vanish.  Love  reduces  them  all,  as  the  sun  melts 
the  iceberg  in  the  sea.  The  heart  and  soul  of  all  men  being 
one,  this  bitterness  of  His  and  Mine  ceases.  His  is  mine.  I 
am  my  brother,  and  my  brother  is  me.  If  I  feel  overshad 
owed  and  outdone  by  great  neighbors,  I  can  yet  love;  I  caa 
still  receive;  and  he  that  loveth  maketh  his  own  the  grandeur 
he  loves.  Thereby  I  make  the  discovery  that  my  brother 
is  my  guardian,  acting  for  me  with  the  friendliest  designs, 
and  the  estate  I  so  admired  and  envied  is  my  own.  It  is  the 


COMPENSATION  195 

eternal  nature  of  the  soul  to  appropriate  and  make  all  things 
its  own.  Jesus  and  Shakspeare  are  fragments  of  the  soul, 
and  by  love  I  conquer  and  incorporate  them  in  my  own  con 
scious  domain.  His  virtue, — is  not  that  mine?  His  wit, — 
if  it  cannot  be  made  mine,  it  is  not  wit. 

Such,  also,  is  the  natural  history  of  calamity.  The  changes 
which  break  up  at  short  intervals  the  prosperity  of  men 
are  advertisements  of  a  nature  whose  law  is  growth.  Ever 
more  it  is  the  order  of  nature  to  grow,  and  every  soul  is  by 
this  intrinsic  necessity  quitting  its  whole  system  of  things, 
its  friends,  and  home,  and  laws,  and  faith,  as  the  shell-fish 
crawls  out  of  its  beautiful  but  stony  case,  because  it  no 
longer  admits  of  its  growth,  and  slowly  forms  a  new  house. 
In  proportion  to  the  vigor  of  the  individual,  these  revolu 
tions  are  frequent,  until  in  some  happier  mind  they  are  in 
cessant,  and  all  worldly  relations  hang  very  loosely  about 
him,  becoming,  as  it  were,  a  transparent  fluid  membrane 
through  which  the  form  is  always  seen,  and  not,  as  in  most 
men,  an  indurated  heterogenous  fabric  of  many  dates,  and 
of  no  settled  character,  in  which  the  man  is  imprisoned. 
Then  there  /  can  be  enlargement,  and  the  man  of  to-day 
scarcely  recognizes  the  man  of  yesterday.  And  such  should 
be  the  outward  biography  of  man  in  time, — a  putting  off  of 
dead  circumstances  day  by  day,  as  he  renews  his  raiment 
day  by  day.  But  to  us,  in  our  lapsed  estate,  resting  not 
advancing,  resisting  not  co-operating  with  the  divine  ex 
pansion,  this  growth  comes  by  shocks. 

We  cannot  part  with  our  friends.  We  cannot  let  our 
angels  go.  We  do  not  see  that  they  only  go  out  that  arch 
angels  may  come  in.  We  are  idolaters  of  the  Old.  We  do 
not  believe  in  the  riches  of  the  soul,  in  its  proper  eternity 
.and  omnipresence.  We  do  not  believe  there  is  any  force  in 
to-day  to  rival  or  re-create  that  beautiful  yesterday.  We 
linger  in  the  ruins  of  the  old  tent,  where  once  we  had  bread 
and  shelter  and  organs,  nor  believe  that  the  spirit  can  feed, 
cover,  and  nerve  us  again.  But  we  sit  and  weep  in  vain. 
The  voice  of  the  Almighty  saith,  "Up  and  onward  for  ever 
more!"  We  cannot  stay  amid  the  ruins.  Neither  will  we 


196  COMPENSATION 

rely  on  the  New:  and  so  we  walk  ever  with  reverted  eyes, 
like  those  monsters  who  look  backwards, 

And  yet  the  compensations  of  calamity  are  made  appar 
ent  to  the  understanding  also,  after  long  intervals  of  time. 
A  fever,  a  mutilation,  a  cruel  disappointment,  a  loss  of 
wealth,  a  loss  of  friends,  seems  at  the  moment  unpaid  loss, 
and  unpayable.  But  the  sure  years  reveal  the  deep  remedial 
force  that  underlies  all  facts.  The  death  of  a  dear  friend, 
wife,  brother,  lover,  which  seemed  nothing  but  privation, 
somewhat  later  assumes  the  aspect  of  a  guide  or  genius;  for 
it  commonly  operates  revolutions  in  our  way  of  life,  termi 
nates  an  epoch  of  infancy  or  of  youth  which  was  waiting  to 
be  closed,  breaks  up  a  wonted  occupation,  or  a  household,  or 
style  of  living,  and  allows  the  formation  of  new  ones  more 
friendly  to  the  growth  of  character.  It  permits  or  constrains 
the  formation  of  new  acquaintances,  and  the  reception  of 
new  influences,  that  prove  of  the  first  importance  to  the 
next  years;  and  the  man  or  woman  who  would  have  re 
mained  a  sunny  garden-flower,  with  no  room  for  its  roots, 
and  too  much  sunshine  for  its  head,  by  the  falling  of  the 
walls  and  the  neglect  of  the  gardener,  is  made  the  banian  of 
the  forest,  yielding  shade  and  fruit  to  wide  neighborhoods  of 
men 


IX 

HEROISM 

*' Paradise  is  under  the  shadow  of  swords." 

Mahomet. 

IN  the  elder  English  dramatists,  and  mainly  in  the  plays 
of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  there  is  a  constant  recognition  of 
gentility,  as  if  a  noble  behavior  were  as  easily  marked  in  the 
society  of  their  age,  as  color  is  in  our  American  population. 
When  any  Rodrigo,  Pedro,  or  Valerio  enters,  though  he  be 
a  stranger,  the  duke  or  governor  exclaims,  This  is  a  gentle 
man, — and  proffers  civilities  without  end;  but  all  the  rest 
are  slag  and  refuse.  In  harmony  with  this  delight  in  per 
sonal  advantages,  there  is  in  their  plays  a  certain  heroic  cast 
of  character  and  dialogue, — as  in  Bonduca,  Sophocles,  the 
Mad  Lover,  the  Double  Marriage, — wherein  the  speaker  is 
so  earnest  and  cordial,  and  on  such  deep  grounds  of  char 
acter,  that  the  dialogue,  on  the  slightest  additional  incident 
in  the  plot,  rises  naturally  into  poetry.  Among  many  texts, 
take  the  following.  The  Roman  Martins  has  conquered 
Athens, — all  but  the  invincible  spirits  of  Sophocles  the  duke 
of  Athens,  and  Dorigen  his  wife.  The  beauty  of  the  latter 
inflames  Martius,  and  he  seeks  to  save  her  husband;  but 
Sophocles  will  not  ask  his  life,  although  assured  that  a  word 
will  save  him,  and  the  execution  of  both  proceeds. 

"  Valerius.     Bid  thy  wife  farewell. 

Soph.    No,  I  will  take  no  leave.     My  Dorigen, 
Yonder  above,   'bout  Ariadne's  crown, 
My  spirit  shall  hover  for  thee.     Prithee,  haste. 

Dor.     Stay,  Sophocles, — with  this  tie  up  my  sight; 
Let  not  soft  nature  so  transformed  be, 
And  lose  her  gentler-sexed  humanity, 
To  make  me  see  my  lord  bleed.     So,  'tis  well; 
Never  one  object  underneath  the  sun 
197 


198  HEROISM 

Will  I  behold  before  my  Sophocles. 
Farewell:   now  teach  the  Romans  how  to  die. 

Mar.     Dost  know  what  'tis  to  die? 

Soph.    Thou  dost  not,  Martius, 
And  therefore  not  what  'tis  to  live.    To  die 
Is  to  begin  to  live;  it  is  to  end 
An  old,  stale,  weary  work,  and  to  commence 
A  newer  and  a  better ;    'tis  to  leave 
Deceitful  knaves  for  the  society 
Of  gods  and  goodness.      Thou   thyself  must  part 
At  last  from  all  thy  garlands,   pleasures,  triumphs, 
And  prove  thy  fortitude  what  then  'twill  do. 

Vol.     But  art  not  grieved  nor  vexed  to  leave  thy  life  thus! 

Soph.     Why  should  I  grieve  or  vex  for  being  sent 
To  them  I  ever  loved  best?     Now,  I'll  kneel, 
But  with  my  back  toward  thee;    'tis  the  last  duty 
This  trunk  can  do  the  gods. 

Mar.     Strike,  strike,  Valerius, 
Or  Martius'  heart  will  leap  out  at   his  mouth: 
This  is  a  man,  a  woman!     Kiss  thy  lord, 
And  live  with  all  the  freedom  you  were  wont. 
O  love!  thou  doubly  hast  afflicted  me 
With  virtue  and  with  beauty.     Treacherous  heart, 
My  hand  shall  cast  thee  quick  into  my  urn, 
Ere  thou  transgress  this  knot  of  piety. 

Vol.     What  ails  my  brother? 

Soph.     Martius,  O  Martius, 
Thou  now  hast  found  a  way  to    conquer  me. 

Dor.    O  star  of  Rome!    what  gratitude  can  speak 
Fit  words  to  follow  such  a  deed  as  this? 

Mar.    This  admirable  duke,  Valerius, 
With  his  disdain  of  fortune  and  of  death, 
Captived  himself,  has  captivated  me, 
And  though  my  arm  hath  ta'en  his  body  here, 
His  soul  hath  subjugated   Martius'   soul. 
By  Romulus,  he  is  all  soul,  I  think; 
He  hath  no  flesh,  and  spirit  cannot  be  gyved. 
Then  we  have  vanquished  nothing;    he  is  free, 
And  Martius  walks  now  in  captivity." 

I  do  not  readily  remember  any  poem,  play,  sermon,  novel, 
or  oration,  that  our  press  vents  in  the  last  few  years,  which 
goes  to  the  same  tune.  We  have  a  great  many  flutes  and 
flageolets,  but  not  often  the  sound  of  any  fife.^Yet  Words 
worth's  Laodamia,  and  the  ode  of  "Dion,"  and  some  sonnets, 
have  a  certain  noble  music ;  and  Scott  will  sometimes  draw  a 
stroke  like  the  portrait  of  Lord  Evandale,  given  by  Balfour 


HEROISM  199 

of  Burley.  VThomas  Carlyle,  with  his  natural  taste  for 
what  is  manly  and  daring  in  character,  has  suffered  no  heroic 
trait  -in  his  favorites  to  drop  from  his  biographical  and  his 
torical  pictures.  Earlier,  Robert  Burns  has  given  us  a  song 
or  two.  In  the  Harleian  Miscellanies  there  is  an  account 
of  the  battle  of  Lutzen,  which  deserves  to  be  read.  And 
Simon  Ockley's  History  of  the  Saracens  recounts  the  prodi 
gies  of  individual  valor  with  admiration,  all  the  more  evi 
dent  on  the  part  of  the  narrator,  that  he  seems  to  think  that 
his  place  in  Christian  Oxford  requires  of  him  some  proper 
protestations  of  abhorrence. 


r  requre 
.  font.  if 
uicKl  co 


ature^of  Heroism,  we  shall  quicKly  come  to  Plutarch^w^o  is 
its.  doctQr^aiifijH^tQrian^  To  him  WR  OWP  thfi  "Rrasirksftfi?* 
Dion,  the  Epaminondas,  the  Scipio  of  old;  and  I  must  think 
we  are  more  deeply  indebted  to  him  than  to  all  the  ancient 
writers.  Each  of  his  (JLive^i  is  a  refutation  to  the  des 
pondency  and  cowardice  of  our  religious  and  political  the 
orists.  A  wild  courage,  a  stoicism  not  of  the  schools,  but  of 
the  blood,  shines  in  every  anecdote,  and  has  given  that  book 
its  immense  fame. 

We  need  books  of  this  tart  cathartic  virtue,  more  than 
books  of  political  science  or  of  private  economy.    Life  is  a 
festival  only  to  the  wise.    Seen  from  the  nook  and  chimney- 
side  of  prudence,  it  wears  a  ragged  and  dangerous  front. 
The  violations  of  the  laws  of  nature  by  our  predecessors  and  . 
our  contemporaries  are  punished  in  us  also.    The  disease  and! 
deformity  around  us  certify  the  infraction  of  natural,  intel 
lectual,  and  moral  laws,  and  often  violation  on  violation  tol 
breed  such  compound  misery.    A  lock-jaw,  that  bends  a 
man's  head  back  to  his  heels;  hydrophobia,  that  makes  him 
bark  at  his  wife  and  babes;  insanity,  that  makes  him  eat 
grass;  war,  plague,  cholera,  famine,  —  indicate  a  certain  fe-  , 
rocity  in  nature,  which,  as  it  had  its  inlet  by  human  crime,  ; 
must  have  its  outlet  by  human  suffering.    Unhappily,  al 
most  no  man  exists  who  has  not  in  his  own  person  become, 
to  some  amount,  a  stockholder  in  the  sin,  and  so  made  him-  / 
self  liable  to  a  share  in  the  expiation. 
^--Qut-jculture,  therefore,  must  not  omit  the  arming  of  our 
man.    Let  him  hear  in  season,  that  he  is  born  into  the  state 


200  HEROISM 

of  war,  and  that  the  commonwealth  and  his  own  well-being 

require  that  he  should  not  go  dancing  in  the  weeds  of  peace; 

but  warned,  self-collected,  and  neither  defying  nor  dreading 

the  thunder,  let  him  take  both  reputation  and  life  in  his 

hand,  and  with  perfect  urbanity  dare  the  gibbet  and  the  mob 

fBy  the  absolute  truth  of  his  speech  and  the  rectitude  of  his 

JLbeha-vior. 

^Towards  all  this  external  evil  the  man  within  the  breast 
assumes  a  warlike  attitude,  and  affirms  his  ability  to  cope 
single-handed  with  the  infinite  army  of  enemies.  To  this 
military  attitude  of  the  soul  we  give  the  name  of  Heroism. 
Its  rudest  form  is  the  contempt  for  safety  and  ease,  which 
makes  the  attractiveness  of  war.  It  is  a  self-trust  which 
slights  the  restraints  of  prudence,  in  the  plenitude  of  its  en 
ergy  and  power  to  repair  the  harms  it  may  suffer.  The  hero 
is  a  mind  of  such  balance  that  no  disturbances  can  shake  his 
will;  but  pleasantly,  and  as  it  were  merrily,  he  advances  to  his 
own  music,  alike  in  frightful  alarms  and  in  the  tipsy  mirth  of 
universal  dissoluteness.  There  is  somewhat  not  philosoph 
ical  in  heroism;  there  is  somewhat  not  holy  in  it;  it  seems 
not  to  know  that  other  souls  are  of  one  texture  with  it;  it 
hath  pride;  it  is  the  extreme  of  individual  nature.  Neverthe 
less  we  must  profoundly  revere  it.  There  is  somewhat  in 
great  actions,  which  does  not  allow  us  to  go  behind  them. 
.Jleroism  feels  and  never  reasons,  and  therefore  is  always 
right;  and  although  a  different  breeding,  different  religion, 
and  greater  intellectual  activity,  would  have  modified  or 
even  reversed  the  particular  action,  yet  for  the  hero,  that 
thing  he  does  is  the  highest  deed,  and  is  not  open  to  the  cen 
sure  of  philosophers  or  divines.  It  is  the  avowal  of  the  un 
schooled  man,  that  he  finds  a  quality  in  him  that  is  neg 
ligent  of  expense,  of  health,  of  life,  of  danger,  of  hatred,  of 
reproach,  and  that  he  knows  that  his  will  is  higher  and  more 
excellent  than  all  actual  and  all  possible  antagonists. 

Heroism  works  in  contradiction  to  the  voice  of  mankind, 
and  in  contradiction,  for  a  time,  to  the  voice  of  the  great  and 
good.  Heroism  is  an  obedience  to  a  secret  impulse  of  an  in 
dividual's  character.  Now  to  no  other  man  can  its  wisdom 
appear  as  it  does  to  him,  for  every  man  must  be  supposed 


HEROISM  201 

to  see  a  little  farther  on  his  own  proper  path  than  any  one 
else.  Therefore,  just  and  wise  men  take  umbrage  at  his 
act,  until  after  some  little  time  be  past;  then  they  see  it  to 
be  in  unison  with  their  acts.  All  prudent  men  see  that  the 
action  is  clean  contrary  to  a  sensual  prosperity;  for  every 
heroic  act  measures  itself  by  its  contempt  of  some  external 
good.  But  it  finds  its  own  success  at  last,  and  then  the  pru 
dent  also  extol. 

Self-trust  is  the  essence  of  Heroism.  It  is  the  state  of  the 
soul  at  war;  and  its  ultimate  objects  are  the  last  defiance  of 
falsehood  and  wrong,  and  the  power  to  bear  all  that  can  be 
inflicted  by  evil  agents.  It  speaks  the  truth,  and  it  is  just. 
It  is  generous,  hospitable,  temperate,  scornful  of  petty  cal 
culations,  and  scornful  of  being  scorned.  It  persists;  it  is 
of  an  undaunted  boldness,  and  of  a  fortitude  not  to  be  wea 
ried  out.  Its  jest  is  the  littleness  of  common  life.  That 
false  prudence  which  dotes  on  health  and  wealth  is  the  foil, 
the  butt  and  merriment  of  heroism.  Heroism,  like  Plotinus, 
is  almost  ashamed  of  its  body.  What  shall  it  say,  then,  to 
the  sugar-plums  and  cat's-cradles,  to  the  toilet,  compliments, 
quarrels,  cards,  and  custard,  which  rack  the  wit  of  all  human 
society?  What  joys  has  kind  nature  provided  for  us  dear 
creatures !  There  seems  to  be  no  interval  between  greatness 
and  meanness.  When  the  spirit  is  not  master  of  the  world,  then 
it  is  its  dupe.  Yet  the  little  man  takes  the  great  hoax  so 
innocently,  works  in  it  so  headlong  and  believing,  is  born  red, 
and  dies  gray,  arranging  his  toilet,  attending  on  his  own 
health,  laying  traps  for  sweet  food  and  strong  wine,  setting 
his  heart  on  a  horse  or  a  rifle,  made  happy  with  a  little  gos 
sip  or  a  little  praise,  that  the  great  soul  cannot  choose  but 
laugh  at  such  earnest  nonsense.  "Indeed,  these  humble  con 
siderations  make  me  out  of  love  with  greatness.  What  a 
disgrace  is  it  to  me  to  take  note  how  many  pairs  of  silk 
stockings  thou  hast,  namely,  these  and  those  that  were  the 
peach-colored  ones;  or  to  bear  the  inventory  of  thy  shirts,  as 
one  for  superfluity,  and  one  other  for  use!" 

Citizens,  thinking  after  the  laws  of  arithmetic,  consider 
the  inconvenience  of  receiving  strangers  at  their  fireside, 
reckon  narrowly  the  loss  of  time  and  the  unusual  display: 


202  HEROISM 

the  soul  of  a  better  quality  thrusts  back  the  unseasonable 
economy  into  the  vaults  of  life,  and  says,  I  will  obey  the  God, 
and  the  sacrifice  and  the  fire  he  will  provide.  Ibn  Haukal, 
the  Arabian  geographer,  describes  a  heroic  extreme  in  the 
hospitality  of  Sogd,  in  Bukharia.  "When  I  was  in  Sogd, 
J  saw  a  great  building,  like  a  palace,  the  gates  of  which  were 
open  and  fixed  back  to  the  wall  with  large  nails.  I  asked 
the  reason,  and  was  told  that  the  house  had  not  been  shut 
night  or  day,  for  a  hundred  years.  Strangers  may  pre 
sent  themselves  at  any  hour,  and  in  whatever  number;  the 
master  has  amply  provided  for  the  reception  of  the  men  and 
their  animals,  and  is  never  happier  than  when  they  tarry  for 
some  time.  Nothing  of  the  kind  have  I  seen  in  any  other 
country."  The  magnanimous  know  very  well,  that  they 
who  give  time,  or  money,  or  shelter  to  the  stranger — so  it 
be  done  for  love,  and  not  for  ostentation — do  as  it  were  put 
God  under  obligation  to  them,  so  perfect  are  the  compensa 
tions  of  the  universe.  In  some  way,  the  time  they  seem  to 
lose  is  redeemed,  and  the  pains  they  seem  to  take  remunerate 
themselves.  These  men  fan  the  flame  of  human  love,  and 
raise  the  standard  of  civil  virtue  among  mankind.  But  hos 
pitality  must  be  for  service,  and  not  for  show,  or  it  pulls 
down  the  host.  The  brave  soul  rates  itself  too  high  to 
value  itself  by  the  splendor  of  its  table  and  draperies.  It 
gives  what  it  hath,  and  all  it  hath;  but  its  own  majesty  can 
lend  a  better  grace  to  bannocks  and  fair  water  than  belong 
to  city  feasts. 

The  temperance  of  the  hero  proceeds  from  the  same  wish 
to  do  no  dishonor  to  the  worthiness  he  has.  But  he  loves 
it  for  its  elegancy,  not  for  its  austerity.  It  seems  not  worth 
his  while  to  be  solemn,  and  denounce  with  bitterness  flesh- 
eating  or  wine-drinking,  the  use  of  tobacco,  or  opium,  or 
tea,  or  silk,  or  gold.  A  great  man  scarcely  knows  how  he 
dines,  how  he  dresses;  but,  without  railing  or  precision,  his 
living  is  natural  and  poetic.  John  Eliot,  the  Indian  Apostle, 
drank  water,  and  said  of  wine,  "It  is  a  noble,  generous  liquor, 
and  we  should  be  humbly  thankful  for  it;  but,  as  I  remem 
ber,  water  was  made  before  it."  Better  still  is  the  temper 
ance  of  king  David,  who  poured  out  on  the  ground  unto  the 


HEROISM  203 

Lord  the  water  which  three  of  his  warriors  had  brought  him 
to  drink  at  the  peril  of  their  lives. 

It  is  told  of  Brutus,  that  when  he  fell  on  his  sword,  after 
'the  battle  of  Philippi,  he  quoted  a  line  of  Euripides,  "0  vir 
tue,  I  have  followed  thee  through  life,  and  I  find  thee  at  last 
but  a  shade."  I  doubt  not  the  hero  is  slandered  by  this  re 
port.  The  heroic  soul  does  not  sell  its  justice  and  its  nobleness. 
It  does  not  ask  to  dine  nicely  and  to  sleep  warm.  The  essence 
of  greatness  is  the  perception  that  virtue  is  enough.  Pov 
erty  is  its  ornament.  Plenty  it  does  not  need,  and  can 
very  well  abide  its  loss. 

But  that  which  takes  my  fancy  most,  in  the  heroic  class, 
is  the  good  humor  and  hilarity  they  exhibit.  It  is  a  height 
to  which  common  duty  can  very  well  attain,  to  suffer  and 
to  dare  with  solemnity.  But  these  rare  souls  set  opinion, 
success,  and  life,  at  so  cheap  a  rate,  that  they  will  not  soothe 
their  enemies  by  petitions,  or  the  show  of  sorrow,  but  wear 
their  own  habitual  greatness.  Scipio,  charged  with  pecu 
lation,  refuses  to  do  himself  so  great  a  disgrace  as  to  wait  for 
justification,  though  he  had  the  scroll  of  his  accounts  in  his 
hands,  but  tears  it  to  pieces  before  the  tribunes.  Socrates' 
condemnation  of  himself  to  be  maintained  in  all  honor  in 
the  Prytaneum  during  his  life,  and  Sir  Thomas  More's  play 
fulness  at  the  scaffold,  are  of  the  same  strain.  In  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher's  "Sea  Voyage,"  Juletta  tells  the  stout  captain 
and  his  company, 

"Jul.     Why,  slaves,  'tis  in  our  power  to  hang  ye. 
Master.  Very  likely; 

'Tis  in  our  powers,  then,  to  be  hanged,  and  scorn  ye." 

These  replies  are  sound  and  whole.  Sport  is  the  bloom  and 
glow  of  a  perfect  health.  The  great  will  not  condescend  to 
take  anything  seriously;  all  must  be  as  gay  as  the  song  of  a 
canary,  though  it  were  the  building  of  cities,  or  the  eradi 
cation  of  old  and  foolish  churches  and  nations,  which  have 
cumbered  the  earth  long  thousands  of  years.  Simple  hearts 
put  all  the  history  and  customs  of  this  world  behind  them, 
and  play  their  own  play  in  innocent  defiance  of  the  Blue- 
Laws  of  the  world;  and  such  would  appear,  could  we  see  the 


204  HEROISM 

human  race  assembled  in  vision,  like  little  children  frolick 
ing  together;  though,  to  the  eyes  of  mankind  at  large,  they 
wear  a  stately  and  solemn  garb  of  works  and  influences. 

The  interest  these  fine  stories  have  for  us,  the  power  of  a 
romance  over  the  boy  who  grasps  the  forbidden  book  under 
his  bench  at  school,  our  delight  in  the  hero,  is  the  main  fact  to 
our  purpose.  All  these  great  and  transcendent  properties 
are  ours.  If  we  dilate  in  beholding  the  Greek  energy,  the 
Roman  pride,  it  is  that  we  are  already  domesticating  the 
same  sentiment.  Let  us  find  room  for  this  great  guest  in  our 
small  houses.  The  first  step  of  worthiness  will  be  to  dis 
abuse  us  of  our  superstitious  associations  with  places  and 
times,  with  number  and  size.  Why  should  these  words, 
Athenian,  Roman,  Asia,  and  England,  so  tingle  in  the  ear? 
Let  us  feel  that  where  the  heart  is,  there  the  muses,  there 
the  gods  sojourn,  and  not  in  any  geography  of  fame.  Massa 
chusetts,  Connecticut  River,  and  Boston  Bay,  you  think 
paltry  places,  and  the  ear  loves  names  of  foreign  and  classic 
topography.  But  here  we  are; — that  is  a  great  fact,  and,  if 
we  will  tarry  a  little,  we  may  come  to  learn  that  here  is  best. 
See  to  it,  only  that  thyself  is  here; — and  art  and  nature,  hope 
and  dread,  friends,  angels,  and  the  Supreme  Being,  shall  not 
be  absent  from  the  chamber  where  thou  sittest.  Epami- 
nondas,  brave  and  affectionate,  does  not  seem  to  us  to  need 
Olympus  to  die  upon,  nor  the  Syrian  sunshine.  He  lies  very 
well  where  he  is.  The  Jerseys  were  handsome  ground 
enough  for  Washington  to  tread,  and  London  streets  for 
the  feet  of  Milton.  A  great  man  illustrates  his  place,  makes 
his  climate  genial  in  the  imagination  of  men,  and  its  air  the 
beloved  element  of  all  delicate  spirits.  That  country  is  the 
fairest  which  is  inhabited  by  the  noblest  minds.  The  pict 
ures  which  fill  the  imagination  in  reading  the  actions  of  Per 
icles,  Xenophon;  Columbus,  Bayard,  Sidney,  Hampden,  teach 
us  how  needlessly  mean  our  life  is;  that  we,  by  the  depth  of 
our  living,  should  deck  it  with  more  than  regal  or  national 
splendor,  and  act  on  principles  that  should  interest  man  and 
nature  in  the  length  of  our  days. 

We  have  seen  or  heard  of  many  extraordinary  young  men 
who  never  ripened,  or  whose  performance  in  actual  life  was 


HEROISM  205 

not  extraordinary.  When  we  see  their  air  and  mien,  when 
we  hear  them  speak  of  society,  of  books,  of  religion,  we  ad 
mire  their  superiority,  they  seem  to  throw  contempt  on  the 
whole  state  of  the  world;  theirs  is  the  tone  of  a  youthful 
giant,  who  is  sent  to  work  revolutions.  But  they  enter  an 
active  profession,  and  the  forming  Colossus  shrinks  to  the 
common  size  of  man.  The  magic  they  used  was  the  ideal  ten 
dencies,  which  always  make  the  Actual  ridiculous;  but  the 
tough  world  had  its  revenge  the  moment  they  put  their  horses 
of  the  sun  to  plough  in  its  furrow.  They  found  no  example 
and  no  companion,  and  their  heart  fainted.  What  then? 
The  lesson  they  gave  in  their  first  aspirations  is  yet  true; 
and  a  better  valor  and  a  purer  truth  shall  one  day  execute 
their  will,  and  put  the  world  to  shame.  Or  why  should  a 
woman  liken  herself  to  any  historical  woman,  and  think, 
because  Sappho,  or  Sevigne,  or  De  Stael_,  or  the  cloistered 
souls  who  have  had  genius  and  cultivation,  do  not  satisfy  the 
imagination  and  the  serene  Themis,  none  can, — certainly  not 
she?  Why  not?  She  has  a  new  and  unattempted  prob 
lem  to  solve,  perchance  that  of  the  happiest  nature  that 
ever  bloomed.  Let  the  maiden  with  erect  soul  walk  serenely 
on  her  way,  accept  the  hint  of  each  new  experience,  try,  in 
turn,  all  the  gifts  God  offers  her,  that  she  may  learnTEKe" 
power  and  the  cbarui"tlfat,  like-^rnew  dawn  radiating  out  of 
the  deep  of  sp&ce,  her  new-born  being  is.  The  fair  girl,  who 
repels  interference  by  a  decided  and  proud  choice  of  in 
fluences,  so  careless  of  pleasing,  so  wilful  and  lofty,  in 
spires  every  beholder  with  somewhat  of  her  own  nobleness. 
The  silent  heart  encourages  her;  0  friend,  never  strike  sail 
to  a  fear.  Come  in1->  port  greatly,  or  sail  with  God  the 
seas.  Not  in  vain  yo  live,  for  every  passing  eye  is  cheered 
and  refined  by  the  vision. 

The  characteristic  of  a  genuine  heroism  is  its  persistency. 
All  men  have  wandering  impulses,  fits  and  starts  of  gener 
osity.  But  when  you  have  resolved  to  be  great,  abide  by 
yourself,  and  do  not  weakly  try  to  reconcile  yourself  with  the 
world.  The  heroic  cannot  be  the  common,  nor  the  common 
the  heroic.  Yet  we  have  the  weakness  to  expect  the  sympathy 
of  people  in  those  actions  whose  excellence  is,  that  they  out- 


206  HEROISM 

run  sympathy,  and  appeal  to  a  tardy  justice.  If  you  would 
serve  your  brother,  because  it  is  fit  for  you  to  serve  him,  do 
1  not  take  back  your  words  when  you  find  that  prudent  people 
-  do  not  commend  you.  Be  true  to  your  own  act,  and  con 
gratulate  yourself  if  you  have  done  something  strange  and 
extravagant,  and  broken  the  monotony  of  a  decorous  age. 
It  was  a  high  counsel  that  I  once  heard  given  to  a  young 
person,  "Always  do  what  you  are  afraid  to  do."  A  simple 
manly  character  need  never  make  an  apology,  but  should 
regard  its  past  action  with  the  calmness  of  Phocion,  when  he 
admitted  that  the  event  of  the  battle  was  happy,  yet  did 
not  regret  his  dissuasion  from  the  battle. 

There  is  no  weakness  or  exposure  for  which  we  cannot 
find  consolation  in  the  thought, — this  is  a  part  of  my  con 
stitution,  part  of  my  relation  and  office  to  my  fellow-creat 
ure.  Has  nature  covenanted  with  me  that  I  should  never 
appear  to  disadvantage,  never  make  a  ridiculous  figure? 
Let  us  be  generous  of  our  dignity,  as  well  as  of  our  money. 
Greatness  once  and  forever  has  done  with  opinion.  We  tell 
our  charities,  not  because  we  wish  to  be  praised  for  them, 
not  because  we  think  they  have  great  merit,  but  for  our  jus 
tification.  It  is  a  capital  blunder;  as  you  discover,  when  an 
other  man  recites  his  charities. 

To  speak  the  truth  even  with  some  austerity,  to  live  with 
some  rigor  of  temperance  or  some  extremes  of  generosity, 
seems  to  be  an  asceticism  which  common  good  nature  would 
appoint  to  those  who  are  at  ease  and  in  plenty,  in  sign  that 
they  feel  a  brotherhood  with  the  great  multitude  of  suffer 
ing  men.  And  not  only  need  we  breathe  and  exercise  the 
soul  by  assuming  the  penalties  of  abstinence,  of  debt,  of  soli 
tude,  of  unpopularity,  but  it  behoves  the  wise  man  to  look 
with  a  bold  eye  into  those  rarer  dangers  which  sometimes  in 
vade  men,  and  to  familiarize  himself  with  disgusting  forms 
of  disease,  with  sounds  of  execration,  and  the  vision  of  violent 
death. 

-  Times  of  heroism  are  generally  times  of  terror;  but  the 
day  never  shines  in  which  this  element  may  not  work. 
The  circumstances  of  man,  we  say,  are  historically  somewhat 
better  in  this  country,  and  at  this  hour,  than  perhaps  ever 


HEROISM  207 

before.    More  freedom  exists  for  culture.    It  will  not  now 
run  against  an  axe  at  the  first  step  out  of  the  beaten  track 
of  opinion.    But  whoso  is  heroic  will  always  find  crises  to  / 
try  his  edge.    Human  virtue  demands  her  champions  and' 
martyrs,  and  the  trial  of  persecution  always  proceeds.    It 
is  but  the  other  day  that  the  brave  Lovejoy  gave  his  breast 
to  the  bullets  of  a  mob  for  the  rights  of  free  speech  and 
opinion,  and  died  when  it  was  better  not  to  live. 

I  see  not  any  road  of  perfect  peace  which  a  man  can 
walk,  but  to  take  counsel  of  his  own  bosom.    Let  him  quit 
oo  much  association;  let  him  go  home  much,  and  stablish 
mnself  in  those  courses  he  approves.    The  unremitting  re- 
ention'of  simple  and  high  sentiments  in  obscure  duties  is 
lardening  the  character  to  that  temper  which  will  work 
with  honor,  if  need  be,  in  the  tumult  or  on  the  scaffold. 
Whatever  outrages  have  happened  to  men  may  befall  a  man 
gain;  and  very  easily  in  a  republic,  if  there  appear  any  signs 
•f  a  decay  of  religion.    Coarse  slander,  fire,  tar  and  feathers, 
and  the  gibbet,  the  youth  may  freely  bring  home  to  his  mind, 
and  with  what  sweetness  of  temper  he  can,  and  inquire  how 
'ast  he  can  fix  his  sense  of  duty,  braving  such  penalties, 
whenever  it  may  please  the  next  newspaper,  and  a  sufficient 
number  of  his  neighbors,  to  pronounce  his  opinions  incen 
diary. 

It  may  calm  the  apprehension  of  calamity  in  the  most 
susceptible  heart,  to  see  how  quick  a  bound  nature  has  set 
o  the  utmost  infliction  of  malice.    We  rapidly  approach  a 
)rink  over  which  no  enemy  can  follow  us. 

"Let  them  rave: 
Thou  art  quiet  in  thy  grave." 

In  the  gloom  of  our  ignorance  of  what  shall  be  in  the  hour 
when  we  are  deaf  to  the  higher  voices,  who  does  not  envy 
hem  who  have  seen  safely  to  an  end  their  manful  endeavor  ? 
Who  that  sees  the  meanness  of  our  politics,  but  inly  con 
gratulates  Washington  that  he  is  long  already  wrapped  in  his 
shroud,  and  forever  safe;  that  he  was  laid  sweet  in  his  grave, 
the  hope  of  humanity  not  yet  subjugated  in  him?  Who 
does  not  sometimes  envy  the  good  and  brave,  who  are  no 


208  HEROISM 

more  to  suffer  from  the  tumults  of  the  natural  world,  and 
await  with  curious  complacency  the  speedy  term  of  his  own 
conversation  with  finite  nature?  And  yet  the  love  that 
will  be  annihilated  sooner  than  treacherous,  has  already 
made  death  impossible,  and  affirms  itself  no  mortal,  but  a 
native  of  the  deeps  of  absolute  and  inextinguishable  being. 


FRIENDSHIP 

t/ 

WE  have  a  great  deal  more  kindness  than  is  ever  spoken. 
Maugre  all  the  selfishness  that  chills  like  east  winds  the 
world,  the  whole  human  family  is  bathed  with  an  element  of 
love  like  a  fine  ether.  How  many  persons  we  meet  in  houses, 
whom  we  scarcely  speak  to,  whom  yet  we  honor,  and  who 
honor  us!  How  many  we  see  in  the  street,  or  sit  with  in 
church,  whom,  though  silently,  we  warmly  rejoice  to  be  with! 
Read  the  language  of  these  wandering  eye-beams.  The 
heart  knoweth. 

The  effect  of  the  indulgence  of  this  human  affection  is 
a  certain  cordial  exhilaration.  In  poetry  and  jn  common 
speech,  the  emotions  of  benevolence  and  complacency  which 
are  felt  towards  others  are  likened  to  the  material  effects  of 
fire;  so  swift,  or  much  more  swift,  more  active,  more  cheer 
ing,  are  these  fine  inward  irradiations.  From  the  highest 
degree  of  passionate  love,  to  the  lowest  degree  of  good  will, 
they  make  the  sweetness  of  life. 

Our  intellectual  and  active  powers  increase  with  our  af 
fection.  The  scholar  sits  down  to  write,  and  all  his  years  of 
meditation  do  not  furnish  him  with  one  good  thought  or 
happy  expression;  but  it  is  necessary  to  write  a  letter  to  a 
friend, — and  forthwith  troops  of  gentle  thoughts  invest 
themselves,  on  every  hand,  with  chosen  words.  See,  in  any 
house  where  virtue  and  self-respect  abide,  the  palpitation 
which  the  approach  of  a  stranger  causes.  A  commended 
stranger  is  expected  and  announced,  and  an  uneasiness  be 
twixt  pleasure  and  pain  invades  all  the  hearts  of  a  house 
hold.  His  arrival  almost  brings  fear  to  the  good  hearts  that 
would  welcome  him.  The  house  is  dusted,  all  things  fly  into 
their  places,  the  old  coat  is  exchanged  for  the  new,  and  thev 

209 


210  FRIENDSHIP 

must  get  up  a  dinner  if  they  can.  Of  a  commended  stranger, 
only  the  good  report  is  told  by  others,  only  the  good  and  new 
is  heard  by  us.  He  stands  to  us  for  humanity.  He  is  what 
we  wish.  Having  imagined  and  invested  him,  we  ask  how 
we  should  stand  related  in  conversation  and  action  with  such 
a  man,  and  are  uneasy  with  fear.  The  same  idea  exalts  con 
versation  with  him.  We  talk  better  than  we  are  wont.  We 
have  the  nimblest  fancy,  a  richer  memory,  and  our  dumb 
devil  has  taken  leave  for  the  time.  For  long  hours  we  can 
continue  a  series  of  sincere,  graceful,  rich  communications, 
drawn  from  the  oldest,  secretest  experience  so  that  they  who 
sit  by,  of  our  own  kinsfolk  and  acquaintance,  shall  feel  a 
lively  surprise  at  our  unusual  powers.  But  as  soon  as  the 
stranger  begins  to  intrude  his  partialities,  his  definitions,  his 
defects,  into  the  conversation,  it  is  all  over.  He  has  heard 
the  first,  the  last  and  best,  he  will  ever  hear  from  us.  He  is 
no  stranger  now.  Vulgarity,  ignorance,  misapprehension, 
are  old  acquaintances.  Now,  when  he  comes,  he  may  get  the 
order,  the  dress,  and  the  dinner, — but  the  throbbing  of  the 
heart,  and  the  communications  of  the  soul,  no  more. 

Pleasant  are  these  jets  of  affection,  which  relume  a  young 
world  for  me  again.  Delicious  is  a  just  and  firm  encounter 
of  two  in  a  thought,  in  a  feeling.  How  beautiful,  on  their 
approach  to  this  beating  heart,  the  steps  and  forms  of  the 
gifted  and  the  true!  The  moment  we  indulge  our  affec 
tions,  the  earth  is  metamorphosed :  there  is  no  winter,  and  no 
night:  all  tragedies,  all  ennuis  vanish;  all  duties  even;  noth 
ing  fills  the  proceeding  eternity  but  the  forms  all  radiant 
of  beloved  persons.  Let  the  soul  be  assured  that  somewhere 
in  the  universe  it  should  rejoin  its  friend,  and  it  would  be 
content  and  cheerful  alone  for  a  thousand  years. 

I  awoke  this  morning  with  devout  thanksgiving  for  my 
friends,  the  old  and  the  new.  Shall  I  not  call  God,  the 
Beautiful,  wrho  daily  showeth  himself  so  to  me  in  his  gifts? 
I  chide  society,  I  embrace  solitude,  and  yet  I  am  not  so  un 
grateful  as  not  to  see  the  wise,  the  lovely,  and  the  noble- 
minded,  as  from  time  to  time  they  pass  my  gate.  Who 
hears  me,  who  understands  me,  becomes  mine, — a  posses 
sion  for  all  time.  Nor  is  nature  so  poor,  but  she  gives  me  this 


FRIENDSHIP  211 

joy  several  times,  and  thus  we  weave  social  threads  of  our 
own,  a  new  web  of  relations;  and,  as  many  thoughts  in 
succession  substantiate  themselves,  we  shall  by  and  by  stand 
in  a  new  world  of  our  own  creation,  and  no  longer  strangers 
and  pilgrims  in  a  traditionary  globe.  My  friends  have  come 
to  me  unsought.  The  great  God  gave  them  to  me.  By 
oldest  right,  by  the  divine  affinity  of  virtue  with  itself,  I  find 
them,  or  rather,  not  I,  but  the  Deity  in  me  and  in  them, 
both  deride  and  cancel  the  thick  walls  of  individual  char 
acter,  relation,  age,  sex,  and  circumstance,  at  which  he  usually 
connives,  and  now  makes  many  one.  High  thanks  I  owe 
you,  excellent  lovers,  who  carry  out  the  world  for  me  to  new 
and  noble  depths,  and  enlarge  the  meaning  of  all  my  thoughts. 
These  are  not  stark  and  stiffened  persons,  but  the  new-born 
poetry  of  God, — poetry  without  stop, — hymn,  ode,  and  epic, 
poetry  still  flowing,  and  not  yet  caked  in  dead  books  with 
annotations  and  grammar,  but  Apollo  and  the  Muses  chant 
ing  still.  Will  these  two  separate  themselves  from  me  again, 
or  some  of  them?  I  know  not,  but  I  fear  it  not;  for  my  re 
lation  to  them  is  so  pure,  that  we  hold  by  simple  affinity, 
and  the  Genius  of  my  life  being  thus  social,  the  same  affinity 
will  exert  its  energy  on  whomsoever  is  as  noble  as  these  men 
and  women,  wherever  I  may  be. 

I  confess  to  an  extreme  tenderness  of  nature  on  this  point. 
It  is  almost  dangerous  to  me  to  "crush  the  sweet  poison  of 
misused  wine"  of  the  affections.  A  new  person  is  to  me 
always  a  great  event,  and  hinders  me  from  sleep.  I  have  had 
such  fine  fancies  lately  about  two  or  three  persons,  as  have 
given  me  delicious  hours;  but  the  joy  ends  in  the  day:  it 
yields  no  fruit.  Thought  is  not  born  of  it;  my  action  is  very 
little  modified.  I  must  feel  pride  in  my  friend's  accomplish 
ments,  as  if  they  were  mine, — wild,  delicate,  throbbing  prop 
erty  in  his  virtues.  I  feel  as  warmly  when  he  is  praised,  as 
the  lover  when  he  hears  applause  of  his  engaged  maiden.  We 
over-estimate  the  conscience  of  our  friend.  His  goodness 
seems  better  than  our  goodness,  his  nature  finer,  his  temp 
tations  less.  Every  thing  that  is  his,  his  name,  his  form, 
his  dress,  books,  and  instruments  fancy  enhances.  Our  own 
thought  sounds  new  and  larger  from  his  mouth. 


212  FRIENDSHIP 

Yet  the  systole  and  diastole  of  the  heart  are  not  without 
their  analogy  in  the  ebb  and  flow  of  love.  Friendship,  like 
the  immortality  of  the  soul,  is  too  good  to  be  believed.  The 
lover,  beholding  his  maiden,  half  knows  that  she  is  not  verily 
that  which  he  worships;  and  in  the  golden  hour  of  friend 
ship,  we  are  surprised  with  shades  of  suspicion  and  unbelief. 
We  doubt  that  we  bestow  on  our  hero  the  virtues  in  which 
he  shines,  and  afterwards  worship  the  form  to  which  we  have 
ascribed  this  divine  inhabitation.  In  strictness,  the  soul  does 
not  respect  men  as  it  respects  itself.  In  strict  science,  all 
persons  underlie  the  same  condition  of  an  infinite  remote 
ness.  Shall  we  fear  to  cool  our  love  by  facing  the  fact,  by 
mining  for  the  metaphysical  foundation  of  this  Elysian 
temple?  Shall  I  not  be  as  real  as  the  things  I  see?  If  I 
am,  I  shall  not  fear  to  know  them  for  what  they  are.  Their 
essence  is  not  less  beautiful  than  their  appearance,  though 
it  needs  finer  organs  for  its  apprehension.  The  root 
of  the  plant  is  not  unsightly  to  science,  though  for 
chaplets  and  festoons  we  cut  the  stem  short.  And  I  must 
hazard  the  production  of  the  bald  fact  amidst  these  pleasing 
reveries,  though  it  should  prove  an  Egyptian  skull  at  our 
banquet.  A  man  who  stands  united  with  his  thought  con 
ceives  magnificently  of  himself.  He  is  conscious  of  a  uni 
versal  success,  even  though  bought  by  uniform  particular 
failures.  No  advantages,  no  powers,  no  gold  or  force  can  be 
any  match  for  him.  I  cannot  choose  but  rely  on  my  own 
poverty  more  than  on  your  wealth.  I  cannot  make  your 
consciousness  tantamount  to  mine.  Only  the  star  dazzles; 
the  planet  has  a  faint,  moon-like  ray.  I  hear  what  you  say 
of  the  admirable  parts  and  tried  temper  of  the  party  you 
praise,  but  I  see  well  that  for  all  his  purple  cloaks  I  shall 
not  like  him,  unless  he  is  at  last  a  poor  Greek  like  me.  I 
cannot  deny  it,  0  friend,  that  the  vast  shadow  of  the  Phe 
nomenal  includes  thee  also  in  its  pied  and  painted  immen- 
gitv> — thee  also,  compared  with  whom  all  else  is  shadow. 
Thou  art  not  Being,  as  Truth  is,  as  Justice  is, — thou  art 
not  my  soul,  but  a  picture  and  effigy  of  that.  Thou  hast 
come  to  me  lately,  and  already  thou  art  seizing  thy  hat  and 
cloak.  Is  it  not  that  the  soul  puts  forth  friends,  as  the  tree 


FRIENDSHIP  213 

puts  forth  leaves,  and  presently,  by  the  germination  of  new 
buds,  extrudes  the  old  leaf?  The  law  of  nature  is  alter 
nation  forevermore.  Each  electrical  state  superinduces  the 
opposite.  The  soul  environs  itself  with  friends,  that  it  may 
enter  into  a  grander  self-acquaintance  or  solitude;  and  it 
goes  alone  for  a  season,  that  it  may  exalt  its  conversation  or 
society.  This  method  betrays  itself  along  the  whole  history 
of  our  personal  relations.  Ever  the  instinct  of  affection  re 
vives  the  hope  of  union  with  our  mates,  and  ever  the  return 
ing  sense  of  insulation  recalls  us  from  the  chase.  Thus 
every  man  passes  his  life  in  the  search  after  friendship;  and 
if  he  should  record  his  true  sentiment,  he  might  write  a  letter 
like  this  to  each  new  candidate  for  his  love. 

DEAR  FRIEND, 

If  I  was  sure  of  thee,  sure  of  thy  capacity, 
sure  to  match  my  mood  with  thine,  I  should  never  think 
again  of  trifles,  in  relation  to  thy  comings  and  goings.  I 
am  not  very  wise;  my  moods  are  quite  attainable:  and  I 
respect  thy  genius:  it  is  to  me  as  yet  unfathomed;  yet  dare 
I  riot  presume  in  thee  a  perfect  intelligence  of  me,  and  so 
thou  art  to  me  a  delicious  torment.  Thine  ever,  or  never. 

Yet  these  uneasy  pleasures  and  fine  pains  are  for  curiosity, 
and  not  for  life.  They  are  not  to  be  indulged.  This  is  to 
weave  cobweb,  and  not  cloth.  Our  friendships  hurry  to 
short  and  poor  conclusions,  because  we  have  made  them  a 
texture  of  wine  and  dreams,  instead  of  the  tough  fibre  of  the 
human  heart.  The  laws  of  friendship  are  great,  austere, 
and  eternal,  of  one  web  with  the  laws  of  nature  and  of 
morals.  But  we  have  aimed  at  a  swift  and  petty  benefit, 
to  suck  a  sudden  sweetness.  We  snatch  at  the  slowest  fruit 
in  the  whole  garden  of  God,  which  many  summers  and  many 
winters  must  ripen.  We  seek  our  friend  not  sacredly,  but 
with  an  adulterate  passion,  which  would  appropriate  him  to 
ourselves.  In  vain.  We  are  armed  all  over  with  subtle  an 
tagonisms,  which,  as  soon  as  we  meet,  begin  to  play,  and 
translate  all  poetry  into  stale  prose.  Almost  all  people  de 
scend  to  meet.  All  association  must  be  a  compromise,  and, 
what  is  worst,  the  very  flower  and  aroma  of  the  flower  of 
each  of  the  beautiful  natures  disappears  as  they  approach 


214  FRIENDSHIP 

each  other.  What  a  perpetual  disappointment  is  actual 
society,  even  of  the  virtuous  and  gifted!  After  interviews 
have  been  compassed  with  long  foresight,  we  must  be  tor 
mented  presently  by  baffled  blows,  by  sudden  unseason 
able  apathies,  by  epilepsies  of  wit  and  of  animal  spirits,  in 
the  hey-day  of  friendship  and  thought.  Our  faculties  do  not 
play  us  true,  and  both  parties  are  relieved  by  solitude. 

I  ought  to  be  equal  to  every  relation.  It  makes  no  dif 
ference  how  many  friends  I  have,  and  what  content  I  can 
find  in  conversing  with  each,  if  there  be  one  to  whom  I 
am  not  equal.  If  I  have  shrunk  unequal  from  one  contest, 
instantly  the  joy  I  find  in  all  the  rest  becomes  mean  arid 
cowardly.  I  should  hate  myself,  if  then  I  made  my  other 
friends  my  asylum. 

"The  valiant  warrior  famoused  for  fight, 
After  a  hundred  victories,  once  foiled, 
Is  from  the  book  of  honour  razed  quite, 

And  all  the  rest  forgot  for  which  he  toiled." 

Our  impatience  is  thus  sharply  rebuked.  Bashfulness  and 
apathy  are  a  tough  husk,  in  which  a  delicate  organization  is 
protected  from  premature  ripening.  It  would  be  lost,  if 
it  knew  itself  before  any  of  the  best  souls  were  yet  ripe 
enough  to  know  and  own  it.  Respect  the  Naturlangsam- 
keit  which  hardens  the  ruby  in  a  million  years,  and  works 
in  duration,  in  which  Alps  and  Andes  come  and  go  as  rain 
bows.  The  good  spirit  of  our  life  has  no  heaven  which  is  the 
price  of  rashness.  Love,  which  is  the  essence  of  God,  is  not 
for  levity,  but  for  the  total  worth  of  man.  Let  us  not  have 
this  childish  luxury  in  our  regards,  but  the  austerest  worth; 
let  us  approach  our  friend  with  an  audacious  trust  in  the 
truth  of  his  heart,  in  the  breadth,  impossible  to  be  over 
turned,  of  his  foundations. 

The  attractions  of  this  subject  are  not  to  be  resisted;  and 
I  leave,  for  the  time,  all  account  of  subordinate  social  bene 
fit,  to  speak  of  that  select  and  sacred  relation  which  is  a 
kind  of  absolute,  and  which  even  leaves  the  language  of 
love  suspicious  and  common,  so  much  is  this  purer,  and 
nothing  is  so  much  divine. 


FRIENDSHIP  215 

I   do  not  wish  to  treat  friendships  daintily,  but  with 
roughest  courage.    When  they  are  real,  they  are  not  glass 
threads  or  frost-work,  but  the  solidest  thing  we  know.    For 
now,  after  so  many  ages  of  experience,  what  do  we  know  of 
nature,   or   of  ourselves?     Not   one   step   has  man  taken 
toward  the  solution  of  the  problem  of  his  destiny.    In  one 
condemnation  of  folly  stand  the  whole  universe  of  men.    But 
the  sweet  sincerity  of  joy  and  peace,  which  I  draw  from 
this  alliance  with  my  brother's  soul,  is  the  nut  itself  where 
of  all  nature  and  all  thought  is  but  the  husk  and  shell. 
Happy  is  the  house  that  shelters  a  friend!     It  might  well 
be  built,  like  a  festal  bower  or  arch,  to  entertain  him  a 
single  day.    Happier,  if  he  knows  the  solemnity  of  that  re 
lation,  and  honor  its  laws!     It  is  no  idle  band,  no  holyday 
engagement.    He  who  offers  himself  a  candidate  for  that 
covenant  comes  up,  like  an  Olympian,  to  the  great  games, 
where  the  first-born  of  the  world  are  the  competitors.    He 
proposes  himself  for  contests  where  Time,  Want,  Danger,  are 
in  the  lists,  and  he  alone  is  victor  who  has  truth  enough  in 
his  constitution  to  preserve  the  delicacy  of  his  beauty  from 
the  wear  and  tear  of  all  these.    The  gifts  of  fortune  may  be 
present  or  absent,  but  all  the  hap  in  that  contest  depends  on 
intrinsic  nobleness,  and  the  contempt  of  trifles.    There  are 
two  elements  that  go  to  the  composition  of  friendship,  each 
so  sovereign,  that  I  can  detect  no  superiority  in  either,  no 
reason  why  either  should  be  first  named.    One  is  Truth.    A 
friend  is  a  person  with  whom  I  may  be  sincere.    Before  him 
I  may  think  aloud.    I  am  arrived  at  last  in  the  presence  of 
a  man  so  real  and  equal,  that  I  may  drop  even  those  under 
most    garments    of    dissimulation,    courtesy,    and    second 
thought,  which  men  never  put  off,  and  may  deal  with  him 
with  the  simplicity  and  wholeness  with  which  one  chemical 
atom  meets  another.    Sincerity  is  the  luxury  allowed,  like 
diadems  and  authority,  only  to  the  highest  rank,  that  being 
permitted  to  speak  truth,  as  having  none  above  it  to  court 
or  conform  unto.    Every  man  alone  is  sincere.    At  the  en 
trance  of  a  second  person,  hypocrisy  begins.    We  parry  and 
fend  the  approach  of  our  fellow  man  by  compliments,  by 
gossip,   by   amusements,   by   affairs .     We   cover   up   our 


216  FRIENDSHIP 

thought  from  him  under  a  hundred  folds.  I  knew  a  man 
who,  under  a  certain  religious  frenzy,  cast  off  this  drapery, 
and,  omitting  all  compliment  and  commonplace,  spoke  to  the 
conscience  of  every  person  he  encountered,  and  that  with 
great  insight  and  beauty.  At  first  he  was  resisted,  and  all 
men  agreed  he  was  mad.  But  persisting,  as  indeed  he  could 
not  help  doing,  for  some  time  in  this  course,  he  attained  to 
the  advantage  of  bringing  every  man  of  his  acquaintance  into 
true  relations  with  him,  No  man  would  think  of  speaking 
falsely  with  him,  or  of  putting  him  off  with  any  chat  of 
markets  or  reading-rooms.  But  every  man  was  constrained 
by  so  much  sincerity  to  face  him,  and  what  love  of  nature, 
what  poetry,  what  symbol  of  truth  he  had,  he  did  certainly 
show  him.  But  to  most  of  us  society  shows  not  its  face  and 
eye,  but  its  side  and  its  back.  To  stand  in  true  relations 
with  men  in  a  false  age  is  worth  a  fit  of  insanity,  is  it  not? 
We  can  seldom  go  erect.  Almost  every  man  we  meet  re 
quires  some  civility,  requires  to  be  humored; — he  has  some 
fame,  some  talent,  some  whim  of  religion  or  philanthropy 
in  his  head  that  is  not  to  be  questioned,  and  so  spoils  all 
conversation  with  him.  But  a  friend  is  a  sane  man  who 
exercises  not  my  ingenuity,  but  me.  My  friend  gives  me 
entertainment  without  requiring  me  to  stoop,  or  to  lisp,  or 
to  mask  myself.  A  friend,  therefore,  is  a  sort  of  paradox 
in  nature.  I  who  alone  am,  I  who  see  nothing  in  nature 
whose  existence  I  can  affirm  with  equal  evidence  to  my  own, 
behold  now  the  semblance  of  my  being  in  all  its  height, 
variety,  and  curiosity,  reiterated  in  a  foreign  form;  so 
that  a  friend  may  well  be  reckoned  the  masterpiece  of 
nature. 

The  other  element  of  friendship  is  Tenderness.  We  are 
holden  to  men  by  every  sort  of  tie,  by  blood,  by  pride,  by 
fear,  by  hope,  by  lucre,  by  lust,  by  hate,  by  admiration,  by 
every  circumstance  and  badge  and  trifle,  but  we  can  scarce 
believe  that  so  much  character  can  subsist  in  another  as  to 
draw  us  by  love.  Can  another  be  so  blessed,  and  we  so  pure, 
that  we  can  offer  him  tenderness?  When  a  man  becomes 
dear  to  me,  I  have  touched  the  goal  of  fortune.  I  find  very 
little  written  directly  to  the  heart  cf  this  matter  in  books, 


FRIENDSHIP  217 

And  yet  I  have  one  text  which  I  cannot  choose  but  remem 
ber.  My  author  says,  "I  offer  myself  faintly  and  bluntly 
to  those  whose  I  effectually  am,  and  tender  myself  least  to 
him  to  whom  I  am  the  most  devoted."  I  wish  that  friend 
ship  should  have  feet,  as  well  as  eyes  and  eloquence.  It 
must  plant  itself  on  the  ground,  before  it  walks  over  the 
moon.  I  wish  it  to  be  a  little  of  a  citizen,  before  it  is  quite 
a  cherub.  We  chide  the  citizen  because  he  makes  love  a 
commodity.  It  is  an  exchange  of  gifts,  of  useful  loans;  it 
is  good  neighborhood;  it  watches  with  the  sick;  it  holds  the 
pall  at  the  funeral;  and  quite  loses  sight  of  the  delicacies 
and  nobility  of  the  relation.  But  though  we  cannot  find 
the  god  under  this  disguise  of  a  sutler,  yet,  on  the  other  hand, 
we  cannot  forgive  the  poet,  if  he  spins  his  thread  too  fine, 
and  does  not  substantiate  his  romance  by  the  municipal 
virtues  of  justice,  punctuality,  fidelity,  and  pity.  I  hate 
the  prostitution  of  the  name  of  friendship  to  signify  modish 
and  worldly  alliances.  I  much  prefer  the  company  of 
plough-boys  and  tin-pedlars  to  the  silken  and  perfumed 
amity  which  only  celebrates  its  days  of  encounter  by  a 
frivolous  display,  by  rides  in  a  curricle,  and  dinners  at  the 
best  taverns.  The  end  of  friendship  is  a  commerce  the 
most  strict  and  homely  that  can  be  joined;  more  strict  than 
any  of  which  we  have  experience.  It  is  for  aid  and  com 
fort  through  all  the  relations  and  passages  of  life  and  death. 
It  is  fit  for  serene  days,  and  graceful  gifts,  and  country 
rambles,  but  also  for  rough  roads  and  hard  fare,  shipwreck, 
poverty,  and  persecution.  It  keeps  company  with  the 
sallies  of  their  wit  and  the  trances  of  religion.  We  are  to  dig 
nify  to  each  other  the  daily  needs  and  offices  of  man's  life, 
and  embellish  it  by  courage,  wisdom,  and  unity.  It  should 
never  fall  into  something  usual  and  settled,  but  should  be 
alert  and  inventive,  and  add  rhyme  and  reason  to  what  was 
drudgery. 

For  perfect  friendship  it  may  be  said  to  require  natures 
so  rare  and  costly,  so  well  tempered  each,  and  so  happily 
adapted,  and  withal  so  circumstanced,  (for  even  in  that  par 
ticular,  a  poet  says,  love  demands  that  the  parties  be  alto 
gether  paired,)  that  very  seldom  can  its  satisfaction  be  real- 


218  FRIENDSHIP 

ized.  It  cannot  subsist  in  its  perfection,  say  some  of  those 
who  are  learned  in  this  warm  lore  of  the  heart,  betwixt  more 
than  two.  I  am  not  quite  so  strict  in  my  terms,  perhaps 
because  I  have  never  known  so  high  a  fellowship  as 
others.  I  please  my  imagination  more  with  a  circle  of  god 
like  men  and  women  variously  related  to  each  other,  and 
between  whom  subsists  a  lofty  intelligence.  But  I  find  this 
law  of  one  to  one  peremptory  for  conversation,  which  is  the 
practice  and  consummation  of  friendship.  Do  not  mix 
waters  too  much.  The  best  mix  as  ill  as  good  and  bad. 
You  shall  have  very  useful  and  cheering  discourse  at  several 
times  with  two  several  men;  but  let  all  three  of  you  come 
together,  and  you  shall  not  have  one  new  and  hearty 
word.  Two  may  talk  and  one  may  hear,  but  three 
cannot  take  part  in  a  conversation  of  the  most  sin- 
cere  and  searching  sort.  In  good  company  there  is 
never  such  discourse  between  two,  across  the  table, 
as  takes  place  when  you  leave  them  alone.  In  good 
company  the  individuals  at  once  merge  their  egotism  into 
a  social  soul  exactly  coextensive  with  the  several  con 
sciousnesses  there  present.  No  partialities  of  friend  to 
friend,  no  fondnesses  of  brother  to  sister,  of  wife  to  husband, 
are  there  pertinent,  but  quite  otherwise.  Only  he  may  then 
speak  who  can  sail  on  the  common  thought  of  the  party, 
and  not  poorly  limited  to  his  own.  Now  this  convention, 
which  good  sense  demands,  destroys  the  high  freedom  of 
great  conversation,  which  requires  an  absolute  running  of 
two  souls  into  one. 

No  two  men  but  being  left  alone  with  each  other  enter  into 
simpler  relations.  Yet  it  is  affinity  that  determines  which 
two  shall  converse.  Unrelated  men  give  little  joy  to  each 
other;  will  never  suspect  the  latent  powers  of  each.  We 
talk  sometimes  of  a  great  talent  for  conversation,  as  if  it 
were  a  permanent  property  in  some  individuals.  Conver 
sation  is  an  evanescent  relation, — no  more.  A  man  is 
reputed  to  have  thought  and  eloquence;  he  cannot,  for  all 
that,  say  a  word  to  his  cousin  or  his  uncle.  They  accuse 
his  silence  with  as  much  reason  as  they  would  blame  the 
insignificance  of  a  dial  in  the  shade.  In  the  sun  it  will  mark 


FRIENDSHIP  219 

the  hour.  Among  those  who  enjoy  his  thought,  he  will  re 
gain  his  tongue. 

Friendship  requires  that  rare  mean  betwixt  likeness  and 
unlikeness,  that  piques  each  with  the  presence  of  power  and 
of  consent  in  the  other  party.  Let  me  be  alone  to  the  end 
of  the  world,  rather  than  that  my  friend  should  overstep  by 
a  word  or  a  look  in  his  real  sympathy.  I  am  equally  baulked 
by  antagonism  and  by  compliance.  Let  him  not  cease 
an  instant  to  be  himself.  The  only  joy  I  have  in  his  being 
mine,  is  that  the  not  mine  is  mine.  It  turns  the  stomach, 
it  blots  the  daylight,  where  I  looked  for  a  manly  furtherance, 
or  at  least  a  manly  resistance,  to  find  a  mush  of  concession. 
Better  be  a  nettle  in  the  side  of  your  friend  than  his  echo. 
The  condition  which  high  friendship  demands  is,  ability  to 
do  without  it.  To  be  capable  of  that  high  office  requires 
great  and  sublime  parts.  There  must  be  very  two,  before 
there  can  be  very  one.  Let  it  be  an  alliance  of  two  large 
formidable  natures,  mutually  beheld,  mutually  feared,  before 
yet  they  recognize  the  deep  identity  which  beneath  these 
disparities  unites  them. 

He  only  is  fit  for  this  society  who  is  magnanimous.  He 
must  be  so,  to  know  its  law.  He  must  be  one  who  is  sure 
that  greatness  and  goodness  are  always  economy.  He  must 
be  one  who  is  not  swift  to  intermeddle  with  his  fortunes. 
Let  him  not  dare  to  intermeddle  with  this.  Leave  to  the 
diamond  its  ages  to  grow,  nor  expect  to  accelerate  the  births 
of  the  eternal.  Friendship  demands  a  religious  treatment. 
We  must  not  be  wilful,  we  must  not  provide.  We  talk  of 
choosing  our  friends,  but  friends  are  self-elected.  Rev 
erence  is  a  great  part  of  it.  Treat  your  friend  as  a  spec 
tacle.  Of  course,  if  he  be  a  man,  he  has  merits  that  are  not 
yours,  and  that  you  cannot  honor,  if  you  must  needs  hold 
him  close  to  your  person.  Stand  aside.  Give  those  merits 
room.  Let  them  mount  and  expand.  Be  not  so  much  his 
friend  that  you  can  never  know  his  peculiar  energies;  like 
fond  mamas  who  shut  up  their  boy  in  the  house  until  he  is 
almost  grown  a  girl.  Are  you  the  friend  of  your  friend's 
buttons,  or  of  his  thought  ?  To  a  great  heart  he  will  still  be  a 
stranger  in  a  thousand  particulars,  that  he  may  come  near 
in  the  holiest  ground.  Leave  it  to  girls  and  boys  to  regard 


220  FRIENDSHIP 

a  friend  as  property,  and  to  suck  a  short  and  all-confound 
ing  pleasure  instead  of  the  pure  nectar  of  God. 

Let  us  buy  our  entrance  to  this  guild  by  a  long  proba 
tion.  Why  should  we  desecrate  noble  and  beautiful  souls  by 
intruding  on  them?  Why  insist  on  rash  personal  relations 
with  your  friend  ?  Why  go  to  his  house,  or  know  his  mother 
and  brother  and  sisters?  Why  be  visited  by  him  at  your 
own?  Are  these  things  material  to  our  covenant?  Leave 
this  touching  and  clawing.  Let  him  be  to  me  a  spirit.  A 
message,  a  thought,  a  sincerity,  a  glance  from  him,  I  want, 
but  not  news,  nor  pottage.  I  can  get  politics,  and  chat, 
and  neighborly  conveniences,  from  cheaper  companions. 
Should  not  the  society  of  my  friend  be  to  me  poetic,  pure, 
universal,  and  great  as  nature  itself?  Ought  I  to  feel  that 
our  tie  is  profane  in  comparison  with  yonder  bar  of  cloud 
that  sleeps  on  the  horizon,  or  that  clump  of  waving  grass 
that  divides  the  brook?  Let  us  not  vilify,  but  raise  it  to 
that  standard.  That  great  defying  eye,  that  scornful  beauty 
of  his  mien  and  action,  do  not  pique  yourself  on  reducing, 
but  rather  fortify  and  enhance.  Worship  his  superiorities. 
Wish  him  not  less  by  a  thought,  but  hoard  and  tell  them  all. 
Guard  him  as  thy  great  counterpart;  have  a  princedom  to 
thy  friend.  Let  him  be  to  thee  forever  a  sort  of  beautiful 
enemy,  untamable,  devoutly  revered;  and  not  a  trivial  con- 
veniency,  to  be  soon  outgrown  and  cast  aside.  The  hues  of 
the  opal,  the  light  of  the  diamond,  are  not  to  be  seen,  if 
the  eye  is  too  near.  To  my  friend  I  write  a  letter,  and  from 
him  I  receive  a  letter.  That  seems  to  you  a  little.  Me  it 
suffices.  It  is  a  spiritual  gift  worthy  of  him  to  give  and  of 
me  to  receive.  It  profanes  nobody.  In  these  warm  lines 
the  heart  will  trust  itself,  as  it  will  not  to  the  tongue,  and 
pour  out  the  prophecy  of  a  godlier  existence  than  all  the 
annals  of  heroism  have  yet  made  good. 

Respect  so  far  the  holy  laws  of  this  fellowship  as  not  to 
prejudice  its  perfect  flower  by  your  impatience  for  its  open 
ing.  We  must  be  our  own,  before  we  can  be  another's. 
There  is  at  least  this  satisfaction  in  crime,  according  to  the 
Latin  proverb,  you  can  speak  to  your  accomplice  on  even 
terms.  Crimen,  quos  inquinat,  cequat.  To  those  whom  we 


FRIENDSHIP  221 

admire  and  love,  at  first  we  cannot.  Yet  the  least  defect  of 
self-possession  vitiates,  in  my  judgment,  the  entire  relation. 
There  can  never  be  deep  peace  between  two  spirits,  never 
mutual  respect,  until,  in  their  dialogue,  each  stands  for  the 
whole  world. 

What  is  so  great  as  friendship,  let  us  carry  with  what 
grandeur  of  spirit  we  can.  Let  us  be  silent, — so  we  may  hear 
the  whisper  of  the  gods.  Let  us  not  interfere.  Who  set 
you  to  cast  about  what  you  should  say  to  the  select  souls, 
or  to  say  any  thing  to  such?  No  matter  how  ingenious,  no 
matter  how  graceful  and  bland.  There  are  innumerable 
degrees  of  folly  and  wisdom;  and  for  you  to  say  ought  is  to 
be  frivolous.  Wait,  and  thy  soul  shall  speak.  Wait  until 
the  necessary  and  everlasting  overpowers  you,  until  day 
and  night  avail  themselves  of  your  lips.  The  only  money 
of  God  is  God.  He  pays  never  with  any  thing  less  or  any 
thing  else.  The  only  reward  of  virtue  is  virtue:  the  only 
way  to  have  a  friend  is  to  be  one.  Vain  to  hope  to  come 
nearer  a  man  by  getting  into  his  house.  If  unlike,  his  soul 
only  flees  the  faster  from  you,  and  you  shall  catch  never  a 
true  glance  of  his  eye.  We  see  the  noble  afar  off,  and  they 
repel  us;  why  should  we  intrude?  Late — very  late — we  per 
ceive  that  no  arrangements,  no  introductions,  no  consuetudes, 
or  habits  of  society,  would  be  of  any  avail  to  establish  us 
in  such  relations  with  them  as  we  desire, — but  solely  the  up 
rise  of  nature  in  us  to  the  same  degree  it  is  in  them:  then 
shall  we  meet  as  water  with  water :  and  if  we  should  not  meet 
them  then,  we  shall  not  want  them,  for  we  are  already  they. 
In  the  last  analysis,  love  is  only  the  reflection  of  a  man's 
own  worthiness  from  other  men.  Men  have  sometimes  ex 
changed  names  with  their  friends,  as  if  they  would  signify 
that  in  their  friend  each  loved  his  own  soul. 

The  higher  the  style  we  demand  of  friendship,  of  course 
the  less  easy  to  establish  it  with  flesh  and  blood.  We  walk 
alone  in  the  world.  Friends  such  as  we  desire  are  dreams 
and  fables.  But  a  sublime  hope  cheers  ever  the  faithful 
heart,  that  elsewhere,  in  other  regions  of  the  universal 
power,  souls  are  now  acting,  enduring,  and  daring,  which  can 
love  us,  and  which  we  can  love.  We  may  congratulate  our- 


222  FRIENDSHIP 

selves  that  the  period  of  nonage,  of  follies,  of  blunders,  and 
of  shame,  is  passed  in  solitude,  and  when  we  are  finished 
men,  we  shall  grasp  heroic  hands  in  heroic  hands.  Only  be 
admonished  by  what  you  already  see,  not  to  strike  leagues 
of  friendship  with  cheap  persons,  where  no  friendship  can 
be.  Our  impatience  betrays  us  into  rash  and  foolish  alli 
ances,  which  no  God  attends.  By  persisting  in  your  path, 
though  you  forfeit  the  little,  you  gain  the  great.  You  be 
come  pronounced.  You  demonstrate  yourself,  so  as  to  put 
yourself  out  of  the  reach  of  false  relations,  and  you  draw  to 
you  the  first-born  of  the  world, — those  rare  pilgrims  whereof 
only  one  or  two  wander  in  nature  at  once,  and  before  whom 
the  vulgar  great  show  as  spectres  and  shadows  merely. 

It  is  foolish  to  be  afraid  of  making  our  ties  too  spiritual, 
as  if  so  we  could  lose  any  genuine  love.  Whatever  correction  of 
our  popular  views  we  make  from  insight,  nature  will  be  sure 
to  bear  us  out  in,  and  though  it  seems  to  rob  us  of  some  joy, 
will  repay  us  with  a  greater.  Let  us  feel,  if  we  will,  the  ab 
solute  insulation  of  man.  We  are  sure  that  we  have  all  in  us. 
We  go  to  Europe,  or  we  pursue  persons,  or  we  read  books, 
in  the  instinctive  faith  that  these  will  call  it  out  and  reveal 
us  to  ourselves.  Beggars  all.  The  persons  are  such  as 
we;  the  Europe,  an  old  faded  garment  of  dead  persons;  the 
books,  their  ghosts.  Let  us  drop  this  idolatry.  Let  us  give 
over  this  mendicancy.  Let  us  even  bid  our  dearest  friends 
farewell,  and  defy  them,  saying,  "Who  are  you?  Unhand 
me:  I  will  be  dependent  no  more."  Ah!  seest  thou  not,  0 
brother,  that  thus  we  part  only  to  meet  again  on  a  higher 
platform,  and  only  be  more  each  other's,  because  we  are  more 
our  own?  A  friend  is  Janus-laced:  he  looks  to  the  past  and 
the  future.  He  is  the  child  of  all  my  foregoing  hours,  the 
prophet  of  those  to  come.  He  is  the  harbinger  of  a  greater 
friend.  It  is  the  property  of  the  divine  to  be  reproductive. 

I  do,  then,  with  my  friends  as  I  do  with  my  books.  I 
would  have  them  where  I  can  find  them,  but  I  seldom  use 
them.  We  must  have  society  on  our  own  terms,  and  admit 
or  exclude  it  on  the  slightest  cause.  I  cannot  afford  to  speak 
much  with  my  friend.  If  he  is  great,  he  makes  me  so  great 
that  I  cannot  descend  to  converse.  In  the  great  days,  pre- 


FRIENDSHIP  223 

sentiments  hover  before  me,  far  before  me  in  the  firmament. 
I  ought  then  to  dedicate  myself  to  them.  I  go  in  that  I 
may  seize  them,  I  go  out  that  I  may  seize  them.  I  fear  only 
that  I  may  lose  them  receding  into  the  sky  in  which  now  they 
are  only  a  patch  of  brighter  light.  Then,  though  I  prize  my 
friends,  I  cannot  afford  to  talk  with  them  and  study  their 
visions,  lest  I  lose  my  own.  It  would  indeed  give  me  a 
certain  household  joy  to  quit  this  lofty  seeking,  this  spirit 
ual  astronomy,  or  search  of  stars,  and  come  down  to  warm 
sympathies  with  you;  but  then  I  know  well  I  shall  mourn 
always  the  vanishing  of  my  mighty  gods.  It  is  true,  next 
week  1  shall  have  languid  times,  when  I  can  well  afford  to 
occupy  myself  with  foreign  objects;  then  I  shall  regret  the 
lost  literature  of  your  mind,  and  wish  you  were  by  my  side 
aga^n.  But  if  you  come,  perhaps  you  will  fill  my  mind  only 
with  new  visions,  not  with  yourself,  but  with  your  lustres, 
and  I  shall  not  be  able  any  more  than  now  to  converse  with 
you.  So  I  will  owe  to  my  friends  this  evanescent  intercourse. 
I  will  receive  from  them  not  what  they  have,  but  what  they 
are.  They  shall  give  me  that  which  properly  they  cannot 
give  me,  but  which  radiates  from  them.  But  they  shall  not 
hold  me  by  any  relations  less  subtle  and  pure.  We  will 
meet  as  though  we  met  not,  and  part  as  though  we  parted 
not. 

It  has  seemed  to  me  lately  more  possible  than  I  knew,  to 
carry  a  friendship  greatly,  on  one  side,  without  due  corre 
spondence  on  the  other.  Why  should  I  cumber  myself  with 
the  poor  fact  that  the  receiver  is  not  capacious?  It  never 
troubles  the  sun  that  some  of  his  rays  fall  wide  and  vain  into 
ungrateful  space,  and  only  a  small  part  on  the  reflecting 
planet.  Let  your  greatness  educate  the  crude  and  cold 
companion.  If  he  is  unequal,  he  will  presently  pass  away; 
but  thou  art  enlarged  by  thy  own  shining,  and,  no  longer  a 
mate  for  frogs  and  worms,  dost  soar  and  burn  with  the  gods 
of  the  empyrean.  It  is  thought  a  disgrace  to  love  unre 
quited.  But  the  great  will  see  that  true  love  cannot  be  un 
requited.  True  love  transcends  instantly  the  unworthy 
object,  and  dwells  and  broods  on  the  eternal;  and  when  the 
poor,  interposed  mask  crumbles,  it  is  not  sad,  but  feels  rid  of 


224  FRIENDSHIP 

so  much  earth,  and  feels  its  independency  the  surer.  Yet 
these  things  may  hardly  be  said  without  a  sort  of  treachery 
to  the  relation.  The  essence  'of  friendship  is  entireness,  a 
total  magnanimity  and  trust.  It  must  not  surmise  or  pro 
vide  for  infirmity.  It  treats  its  object  as  a  god,  that  it  may 
deify  both. 


XI 

MANNERS 

"How  near  to  good  is  what  is  fair! 
Which  we  no  sooner  see, 
But  with  the  lines  and  outward  air 
Our  senses  taken  be. 

Again  yourselves  compose, 
And  now  put  all  the  aptness  on 
Of  Figure,  that  Proportion 

Or  Colour  can  disclose; 
•    •>          That  if  those  silent  arts  were  lost, 

Design  and  Picture,  they  might  boast 

From  you  a  newer  ground, 
Instructed  by  the  heightening  sense 
Of  dignity  and  reverence 

In  their  true  motions  found." 

BEN  JONSON. 

HALF  the  world,  it  is  said,  knows  not  how  the  other  half 
lives.  Our  Exploring  Expedition  saw  the  Feejee  islanders 
getting  their  dinner  off  human  bones;  and  they  are  said  to 
eat  their  own  wives  and  children.  The  husbandry  of  the 
modern  inhabitants  of  Gournou  (west  of  old  Thebes)  is 
philosophical  to  a  fault.  To  set  up  their  housekeeping, 
nothing  is  requisite  but  two  or  three  earthern  pots,  a  stone 
to  grind  meal,  and  a  mat  which  is  the  bed.  The  house, 
namely,  a  tomb,  is  ready  without  rent  or  taxes.  No  rain 
can  pass  through  the  roof,  and  there  is  no  door,  for  there  is 
no  want  of  one,  as  there  is  nothing  to  lose.  If  the  house  do 
not  please  them,  they  walk  out  and  enter  another,  as  there 
are  several  hundreds  at  their  command.  "It  is  somewhat 
singular,"  adds  Belzoni,  to  whom  we  owe  this  account,  "to 
talk  of  happiness  among  people  who  live  in  sepulchres, 
among  the  corpses  and  rags  of  an  ancient  nation  which  they 

225 


226  MANNERS 

know  nothing  of."  In  the  deserts  of  Borgoo,  the  rock-Tib- 
boos  still  dwell  in  caves,  like  cliff  swallows,  and  the  language 
of  these  negroes  is  compared  by  their  neighbors  to  the  shriek 
ing  of  bats,  and  to  the  whistling  of  birds.  Again,  the  Bor- 
noos  have  no  proper  names;  individuals  are  called  after  their 
height,  thickness,  or  other  accidental  quality,  and  have  nick 
names  merely.  But  the  salt,  the  dates,  the  ivory,  and  the 
gold,  for  which  these  horrible  regions  are  visited,  find  their 
way  into  countries,  where  the  purchaser  and  consumer  can 
hardly  be  ranked  in  one  race  with  these  cannibals  and  man- 
stealers:  countries  where  man  serves  himself  with  metals, 
wood,  stone,  glass,  gum,  cotton,  silk,  and  wool;  honors  him 
self  with  architecture;  writes  laws,  and  contrives  to  execute 
his  will  through  the  hands  of  many  nations;  and  especially 
establishes  a  select  society,  running  through  all  the  countries 
of  intelligent  men,  a  self-constituted  aristocracy,  or  frater 
nity  of  the  best,  which,  without  written  law,  or  exact  usage 
of  any  kind,  perpetuates  itself,  colonizes  every  new-planted 
island,  and  adopts  and  makes  its  own,  whatever  personal 
beauty  or  extraordinary  native  endowment  anywhere  ap 
pears. 

^  What  fact  more  conspicuous  in  modern  history  than  the 
creation  of  the  gentleman?  Chivalry  is  that,  and  loyalty 
is  that,  and,  in  English  literature,  half  the  drama,  and  all  the 
novels,  from  Sir  Philip  Sidney  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  paint 
this  figure.  The  word  gentleman,  which,  like  the  word 
Christian,  must  hereafter  characterize  the  present  and  the 
few  preceeding  centuries,  by  the  importance  attached  to  it, 
is  a  homage  to  personal  and  incommunicable  properties. 
Frivolous  and  fantastic  additions  have  got  associated  with 
the  name,  but  the  steady  interest  of  mankind  in  it  must  be 
attributed  to  the  valuable  properties  which  it  designated. 
An  element  which  unites  all  the  most  forcible  persons  of 
every  country;  makes  them  intelligible  and  agreeable  to  each 
other,  and  is  somewhat  so  precise,  that  it  is  at  once  felt  if 
an  individual  lack  the  masonic  sign,  cannot  be  any  casual 
product,  but  must  be  an  average  result  of  the  character  and 
faculties  universally  found  in  men.  It  seems  a  certain  per 
manent  average;  as  the  atmosphere  is  a  permanent  compo- 


MANNERS     .  227 

sition,  whilst  so  many  gases  are  combined  only  to  be  decom 
pounded.  Comme  il  faut,  is  the  Frenchman's  description 
of  good  society,  as  we  must  be.  It  is  a  spontaneous  fruit 
of  talents  and  feelings  of  precisely  that  class  who  have  most 
vigor,  who  take  the  lead  in  the  world  of  this  hour,  and, 
though  far  from  pure,  far  from  constituting  the  gladdest  and 
highest  tone  of  human  feeling,  is  as  good  as  the  whole  society 
permits  it  to  be.  (It  is  made  of  the  spirit,  more  than  of  the 
talent  of  men,  and  is  a  compound  result,  into  which  every 
great  force  enters  as  an  ingredient,  namely,  virtue,  wit, 
beauty,  wealth,  and  power.) 

There  is  something  equivocal  in  all  the  words  in  use  to 
express  the  excellence  of  manners  and  social  cultivation, 
because  the  quantities  are  fluxional,  and  the  last  effect  is 
assumed  by  the  senses  as  the  cause.  The  word  gentleman 
has  not  any  correlative  abstract  to  express  the  quality. 
Gentility  is  mean,  and  gentilesse  is  obsolete.  But  we  must 
keep  alive  in  the  vernacular  the  distinction  between  fashion, 
a  word  of  narrow  and  often  sinister  meaning,  and  the  heroic 
character  which  the  gentleman  imports.  The  usual  words, 
however,  must  be  respected:  they  will  be  found  to  contain 
the  root  of  the  matter.  The  point  of  distinction  in  all  this 
class  of  names,  as  courtesy,  chivalry,  fashion,  and  the  like,  is, 
that  the  flower  and  the  fruit,  not  the  grain  of  the  tree,  are 
contemplated.  It  is  beauty  which  is  the  aim  this  time,  and 
not  worth.  The  result  is  now  in  question,  although  our 
words  intimate  well  enough  the  popular  feeling,  that  the 
appearance  supposes  a  substance.  fThe  gentleman  is  a  man 
of  truth,  lord  of  his  own  actions,  and  expressing  that  lord 
ship  in  his  behavior,  not  in  any  manner  dependent  and  ser 
vile,  either  on  persons,  or  opinions,  or  possessions.  Beyond 
this  fact  of  truth  and  real  force,  the  word  denotes  good 
nature  or  benevolence:  manhood  first,  and  then  gentleness/ 
The  popular  notion  certainly  adds  a  condition  of  ease  and 
fortune.  But  that  is  a  natural  result  of  personal  force  and 
love,  that  they  should  possess  and  dispense  the  goods  of  the 
world.  In  times  of  violence,  every  eminent  person  must  fall 
in  with  many  opportunities  to  approve  his  stoutness  and 
worth;  therefore,  every  man's  name  that  emerged  at  all 


228  MANNERS 

from  the  mass  in  the  feudal  ages,  rattles  in  our  ear  like  a 
flourish  of  trumpets.  But  personal  force  never  goes  out  of 
fashion.  That  is  still  paramount  to-day,  and,  in  the  mov 
ing  crowd  of  good  society,  the  men  of  valor  and  reality  are 
known,  and  rise  to  their  natural  place.  The  competition  is 
transferred  from  war  to  politics  and  trade,  but  the  personal 
force  appears  readily  enough  in  these  new  arenas. 

Power  first,  or  no  leading  class.  In  politics  and  in 
trade,  bruisers  and  pirates  are  of  better  promise  than 
talkers  and  clerks.  God  knows  that  all  sorts  of  gentlemen 
knock  at  the  door;  but  whenever  used  in  strictness,  and 
with  any  emphasis,  the  name  will  be  found  to  point  at  orig 
inal  energy.  It  describes  a  man  standing  in  his  own  right, 
and  working  after  untaught  methods.  In  a  good  lord,  there 
must  first  be  a  good  animal,  at  least  to  the  extent  of  yielding 
the  incomparable  advantage  of  animal  spirits.  The  ruling  class 
must  have  more,  but  they  must  have  these,  giving  in  every 
company  the  sense  of  power,  which  makes  things  easy  to  be 
done  which  daunt  the  wise.  The  society  of  the  energetic 
class,  in  their  friendly  and  festive  meetings,  is  full  of  courage, 
and  of  attempts,  which  intimidate  the  pale  scholar.  The 
courage  which  girls  exhibit  is  like  the  battle  of  Lundy's 
Lane,  or  a  sea-fight.  The  intellect  relies  on  memory  to 
make  some  supplies  to  face  these  extemporaneous  squadrons. 
But  memory  is  a  base  mendicant  with  basket  and  badge,  in 
the  presence  of  these  sudden  masters.  The  rulers  of  society 
must  be  up  to  the  work  of  the  world,  and  equal  to  their 
versatile  office :  men  of  the  right  Csesarian  pattern,  who  have 
great  range  of  affinity.  I  am  far  from  believing  the  timid 
maxim  of  Lord  Falkland,  ("that  for  ceremony  there  must  go 
two  to  it;  since  a  bold  fellow  will  go  through  the  cunningest 
forms/')  and  am  of  opinion  that  the  gentleman  is  the  bold 
fellow  whose  forms  are  not  to  be  broken  through;  and  only 
that  plenteous  nature  is  rightful  master,  which  is  the  com 
plement  of  whatever  person  it  converses  with.  My  gentle 
man  gives  the  law  where  he  is;  he  will  out-pray  saints  in 
chapel,  out-general  veterans  in  the  field,  and  outshine  all 
courtesy  in  the  hall.  He  is  good  company  for  pirates,  and 
good  with  academicians;  so  that  it  is  useless  to  fortify  your- 


MANNERS  229 

self  against  him;  he  has  the  private  entrance  to  all  minds, 
and  I  could  as  easily  exclude  myself  as  him.  The  famous 
gentlemen  of  Asia  and  Europe  have  been  of  this  strong  type : 
Saladin,  Sapor,  the  Cid,  Julius  Caesar,  Scipio,  Alexander, 
Pericles,  and  the  lordliest  personages.  They  sat  very 
carelessly  in  their  chairs,  and  were  too  excellent  themselves, 
to  value  any  condition  at  a  high  rate. 

A  plentiful  fortune  is  reckoned  necessary,  in  the  popular 
judgment,  to  the  completion  of  this  man  of  the  world:  and 
it  is  a  material  deputy  which  walks  through  the  dance 
which  the  first  has  led.  Money  is  not  essential,  but  this 
wide  affinity  is,  which  transcends  the  habits  of  clique  and 
caste,  and  makes  itself  felt  by  men  of  all  classes.  If  the 
aristocrat  is  only  valid  in  fashionable  circles,  and  not  with 
truckmen,  he  will  never  be  a  leader  in  fashion;  and  if  the 
man  of  the  people  cannot  speak  on  equal  terms  with  the 
gentleman,  so  that  the  gentleman  shall  perceive  that  he  is 
already  really  of  his  own  order,  he  is  not  to  be  feared. 
Diogenes,  Socrates,  and  Epaminondas,  are  gentlemen  of  the 
best  blood,  who  have  chosen  the  condition  of  poverty,  when 
that  of  wealth  was  equally  open  to  them.  I  use  these  old 
names,  but  the  men  I  speak  of  are  my  contemporaries. 
Fortune  will  not  supply  to  every  generation  one  of  these 
well-appointed  knights,  but  every  collection  of  men  fur 
nishes  some  example  of  the  class:  and  the  politics  of  this 
country,  and  the  trade  of  every  town,  are  controlled  by 
these  hardy  and  irresponsible  doers,  who  have  invention  to 
take  the  lead,  and  a  broad  sympathy  which  puts  them  in 
fellowship  with  crowds,  and  makes  their  action  popular. 

The  manners  of  this  class  are  observed  and  caught  with 
devotion  by  men  of  taste.  The  association  of  these  masters 
with  each  other,  and  with  men  intelligent  of  their  merits,  is 
mutually  agreeable  and  stimulating.  The  good  forms,  the 
happiest  expressions  of  each,  are  repeated  and  adopted.  By 
swift  consent,  every  thing  superfluous  is  dropped,  every 
thing  graceful  is  renewed.  Fine  manners  show  themselves 
formidable  to  the  uncultivated  man.  They  are  a  subtler 
science  of  defence  to  parry  and  intimidate;  but  once  matched 
by  the  skill  of  the  other  party,  they  drop  the  point  of  the 


230  MANNERS 

sword, — points  and  fences  disappear,  and  the  youth  finds 
himself  in  a  more  transparent  atmosphere,  wherein  life  is  a 
less  troublesome  game,  and  not  a  misunderstanding  arises 
between  the  players.  Manners  aim  to  facilitate  life,  to  get 
rid  of  impediments,  and  to  bring  the  man  pure  to  energize. 
•  They  aid  our  dealings  and  conversation,  as  a  railway  aids 
travelling,  by  getting  rid  of  all  avoidable  obstructions  of  the 
road,  and  leaving  nothing  to  be  conquered  but  pure  space. 
These  forms  very  soon  become  fixed,  and  a  fine  sense  of  pro 
priety  is  cultivated  with  the  more  heed,  that  it  becomes  a 
badge  of  social  and  civil  distinctions.  Thus  grows  up  Fash 
ion,  an  equivocal  semblance,  the  most  puissant,  the  most 
fantastic  and  frivolous,  the  most  feared  and  followed,  and 
which  morals  and  violence  assault  in  vain. 

There  exists  a  strict  relation  between  the  class  of  power, 
and  the  exclusive  and  polished  circles.  The  last  are  always 
filled  or  filling  from  the  first.  The  strong  men  usually  give 
some  allowance  even  to  the  petulances  of  fashion,  for  that 
affinity  they  find  in  it.  Napoleon,  child  of  the  revolution, 
destroyer  of  the  old  noblesse,  never  ceased  to  court  the 
Faubourg  St.  Germain:  doubtless  with  the  feeling,  that 
fashion  is  a  homage  to  men  of  his  stamp.  Fashion,  though 
in  a  strange  way,  represents  all 'manly  virtue.  It  is  virtue 
gone  to  seed :  it  is  a  kind  of  posthumous  honor.  It  does  not 
often  caress  the  great,  but  the  children  of  the  great:  it  is 
a  hall  of  the  Past.  It  usually  sets  its  face  against  the  great 
of  this  hour.  Great  men  are  not  commonly  in  its  halls: 
they  are  absent  in  the  field :  they  are  working,  not  triumph 
ing.  Fashion  is  made  up  of  their  children;  of  those,  who 
through  the  value  and  virtue  of  somebody,  have  acquired 
lustre  to  their  name,  marks  of  distinction,  means  of  culti 
vation  and  generosity,  and,  in  their  physical  organization,  a 
certain  health  and  excellence  which  secures  to  them,  if  not 
the  highest  power  to  work,  yet  high  power  to  enjoy.  The 
class  of  power,  the  working  heroes,  the  Cortez,  the  Nelson, 
the  Napoleon,  see  that  this  is  the  festivity  and  permanent 
celebration  of  such  as  they;  that  fashion  is  funded  talent; 
is  Mexico,  Marengo,  and  Trafalgar,  beaten  out  thin;  that 
the  brilliant  names  of  fashion  run  back  to  just  such  busy 


MANNERS  231 

names  as  their  own,  fifty  or  sixty  years  ago.  They  are  the 
sowers,  their  sons  shall  be  the  reapers,  and  their  sons,  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  things,  must  yield  the  possession  of  the  har 
vest  to  new  competitors  with  keener  eyes  and  stronger 
frames.  The  city  is  recruited  from  the  country.  In  the 
year  1805,  it  is  said,  every  legitimate  monarch  in  Europe 
was  imbecile.  The  city  would  have  died  out,  rotted,  and 
exploded  long  ago,  but  that  it  was  reinforced  from  the  fields. 
It  is  only  country  which  came  to  town  day  before  yesterday, 
that  is  city  and  court  to-day. 

'  Aristocracy  and  fashion  are  certain  inevitable  results. 
These  mutual  selections  are  indestructible.  If  they  pro 
voke  anger  in  the  least  favored  class,  and  the  excluded 
majority  revenge  themselves  on  the  excluding  minority, 
by  the  strong  hand,  and  kill  them,  at  once  a  new  class  finds 
itself  at  the  top,  as  certainly  as  cream  rises  in  a  btnvl  of 
milk:  and  if  the  people  should  destroy  class  after  class, 
until  two  men  only  were  left,  one  of  these  would  be  the 
leader,  and  would  be  involuntarily  served  and  copied  by  the 
other.  You  may  keep  this  minority  out  of  sight  and  out  of 
mind,  but  it  is  tenacious  of  life,  and  is  one  of  the  estates  of 
the  realm.  I  am  the  more  struck  with  this  tenacity,  when 
I  seek  its  work  It  respects  the  administration  of  such  un 
important  matters,  that  we  should  not  look  for  any  dur 
ability  in  its  rule.  We  sometimes  meet  men  under  some 
strong  moral  influence,  as,  a  patriotic,  a  literary,  a  religious 
movement,  and  feel  that  the  moral  sentiment  rules  man  and 
nature  We  think  all  other  distinctions  and  ties  will  be 
slight  and  fugitive,  this  of  caste  or  fashion,  for  example; 
yet  come  from  year  to  year,  and  see  how  permanent  that  is, 
in  this  Boston  or  New  York  life  of  man,  where,  too,  it  has 
not  the  least  countenance  from  the  law  of  the  land.  Not 
in  Egypt  or  in  India,  a  firmer  or  more  impassable  line. 
Here  are  associations  whose  ties  go  over,  and  under,  and 
through  it,  a  meeting  of  merchants,  a  military  corps,  a 
college-class,  a  fire-club,  a  professional  association,  a  polit 
ical,  a  religious  convention; — the  persons  seem  to  draw  in 
separably  near;  yet,  that  assembly  once  dispersed,  its  mem 
bers  will  not  in  the  year  meet  again.  Each  returns  to 


232  MANNERS 

his  degree  in  the  scale  of  good  society,  porcelain  remains 
porcelain,  and  earthen  earthen.  The  objects  of  fashion  may 
be  frivolous,  or  fashion  may  be  objectless,  but  the  nature  of 
this  union  and  selection  can  be  neither  frivolous  nor  acci 
dental.  Each  man's  rank  in  that  perfect  graduation  de 
pends  on  some  symmetry  in  his  structure,  or  some  agree 
ment  in  his  structure  to  the  symmetry  of  society.  Its  doors 
unbar  instantaneously  to  a  natural  claim  of  their  own  kind. 
A  natural  gentleman  finds  his  way  in,  and  will  keep  the  oldest 
patrician  out,  who  has  lost  his  intrinsic  rank.  Fashion 
understands  itself;  good  breeding  of  every  country  and 
personal  superiority  readily  fraternize  with  that  of  every 
other.  The  chiefs  of  savage  tribes  have  distinguished  them 
selves  in  London  and  Paris,  by  the  purity  of  their  tournure. 
To  say  what  good  of  fashion  we  can, — it  rests  on  reality, 
and  hates  nothing  so  much  as  pretenders; — to  exclude  and 
mystify  pretenders,  and  send  them  into  everlasting  "Cov 
entry/'  is  its  delight.  We  contemn,  in  turn,  every  other 
gift  of  men  of  the  world;  but  the  habit  even  in  little  and  the 
least  matters,  of  not  appealing  to  any  but  our  own  sense  of 
propriety,  constitutes  the  foundation  of  all  chivalry.  There 
is  almost  no  kind  of  self-reliance,  so  it  be  sane  and  propor 
tioned,  which  fashion  does  not  occasionally  adopt,  and  give  it 
the  freedom  of  its  saloons.  A.  sainted  soul  is  always  elegant, 
and,  if  it  will,  passes  unchallenged  into  the  most  guarded 
ring.  But  so  will  Jock  the  teamster  pass,  in  some  crisis  that 
brings  him  thither,  and  find  favor,  as  long  as  his  head  is  not 
giddy  with  the  new  circumstance,  and  the  iron  shoes  do  not 
wish  to  dance  in  waltzes  and  cotillons.  For  there  is  nothing 
settled  in  manners,  but  the  laws  of  behavior  yield  to  the 
energy  of  the  individual.  The  maiden  at  her  first  ball,  the 
countryman  at  a  city  dinner,  believes  that  there  is  a  ritual 
according  to  which  every  act  and  compliment  must  be  per 
formed,  or  the  failing  party  must  be  cast  out  of  this  pres 
ence.  Later  they  learn  that  good  sense  and  character  make 
their  own  forms  every  moment,  and  speak  or  abstain,  take 
wine  or  refuse  it,  stay  or  go,  sit  in  a  chair  or  sprawl  with 
children  on  the  floor,  or  stand  on  their  head,  or  what  else 
soever,  in  a  new  and  aboriginal  way:  and  that  strong  will  is 


MANNERS  233 

always  in  fashion,  let  who  will  be  unfashionable.  (All  that 
fashion  demands  is  composure,  and  self-content.  \  A  circle  of 
men  perfectly  well-bred,  would  be  a  company  of  sensible 
persons,  in  which  every  man's  native  manners  and  charac 
ter  appeared.  If  the  fashionist  have  not  this  quality,  he  is 
nothing.  We  are  such  lovers  of  self-reliance,  that  we  ex 
cuse  in  a  man  many  sins,  if  he  will  show  us  a  complete  satis 
faction  in  his  position,  which  asks  no  leave  to  be,  of  mine, 
or  any  man's  good  opinion.  But  any  deference  to  some 
eminent  man  or  woman  of  the  world,  forfeits  all  privilege 
of  nobility.  He  is  an  underling:  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
him;  I  will  speak  with  his  master.  A  man  should  not  go 
where  he  cannot  carry  his  whole  sphere  or  society  with 
him, — not  bodily,  the  whole  circle  of  his  friends,  but  atmos 
pherically.  He  should  preserve  in  a  new  company  the 
same  attitude  of  mind  and  reality  of  relation,  which  his 
daily  associates  draw  him  to,  else  he  is  shorn  of  his  best 
beams,  and  will  be  an  orphan  in  the  merriest  club.  "If  you 
could  see  Vich  Ian  Vohr  with  his  tail  on! — "  But  Vich 
Ian  Vohr  must  always  carry  his  belongings  in  some  fashion, 
if  not  added  as  honor,  then  severed  as  disgrace. 

There  will  always  be  in  society  certain  persons  who  are 
Mercuries  of  its  approbation,  and  whose  glance  will  at  any 
time  determine  for  the  curious  their  standing  in  the  world. 
These  are  the  chamberlains  of  the  lesser  gods.  Accept 
their  coldness  as  an  omen  of  grace  with  the  loftier  deities, 
and  allow  them  all  their  privilege.  They  are  clear  in  their 
office,  nor  could  they  be  thus  formidable,  without  their  own 
merits.  But  do  not  measure  the  importance  of  this  class 
by  their  pretension,  or  imagine  that  a  fop  can  be  the  dis 
penser  of  honor  and  shame.  They  pass  also  at  their  just 
rate;  for  how  can  they  otherwise,  in  circles  which  exist  as  a 
sort  of  herald's  office  for  the  sifting  of  character? 

As  the  first  thing  man  requires  of  man,  is  reality,  so,  that 
appears  in  all  the  forms  of  society.  We  pointedly,  and  by  name 
introduce  the  parties  to  each  other.  Know  you  before  all 
heaven  and  earth,  that  this  is  Andrew,  and  this  is  Gregory;  — 
they  look  each  other  in  the  eye;  they  grasp  each  other's  hand, 
to  identify  and  signalize  each  other.  It  is  a  great  satis- 


234  MANNERS 

faction.  A  gentleman  never  dodges:  his  eyes  look  straight 
forward,  and  he  assures  the  other  party,  first  of  all,  that 
he  has  been  met.  For  what  is  it  that  we  seek,  in  so  many 
visits  and  hospitalities?  Is  it  your  draperies,  pictures, 
and  decorations?  Or  do  we  not  insatiably  ask,  Was  a  man 
in  the  house?  I  may  easily  go  into  a  great  household 
where  there  is  much  substance,  excellent  provision  for 
comfort,  luxury,  and  taste,  and  yet  not  encounter  there  any 
Amphitryon,  who  shall  subordinate  these  appendages.  I 
may  go  into  a  cottage,  and  find  a  farmer  who  feels  that  he 
is  the  man  I  have  come  to  see,  and  fronts  me  accordingly. 
It  was  therefore  a  very  natural  point  of  feudal  etiquette, 
that  a  gentleman  who  received  a  visit,  though  it  were  of 
his  sovereign,  should  not  leave  his  roof,  but  should  wait  his 
arrival  at  the  door  of  his  house.  No  house,  though  it  were 
the  Tuileries,  or  the  Escurial,  is  good  for  anything  without 
a  master.  And  yet  we  are  not  often  gratified  by  this  hos 
pitality.  Every  body  we  know  surrounds  himself  with  a 
fine  house,  fine  books,  conservatory,  gardens,  equipage,  and 
all  manner  of  toys,  as  screens  to  interpose  between  himself 
and  his  guest.  Does  it  not  seem  as  if  man  was  of  a  very 
sly,  elusive  nature,  and  dreaded  nothing  so  much  as  a  full 
rencontre  front  to  front  with  his  fellow?  It  were  unmerci 
ful,  I  know,  quite  to  abolish  the  use  of  these  screens,  which 
are  of  eminent  convenience,  whether  the  guest  is  too  great, 
or  too  little.  We  call  together  many  friends  who  keep  each 
other  in  play,  or,  by  luxuries  and  ornaments  we  amuse  the 
young  people,  and  guard  our  retirement.  Or  if,  perchance, 
a  searching  realist  comes  to  our  gate,  before  whose  eye  we 
have  no  care  to  stand,  then  again  we  run  to  our  curtain,  and 
hide  as  Adam  at  the  voice  of  the  Lord  God  in  the  garden. 
Cardinal  Caprara,  the  Pope's  legate  at  Paris,  defended  him 
self  from  the  glances  of  Napoleon,  by  an  immense  pair  of 
green  spectacles.  Napoleon  remarked  them,  and  speedily 
managed  to  rally  them  off;  and  yet  Napoleon,  in  his  turn, 
was  not  great  enough  with  eight  hundred  thousand  troops 
at  his  back,  to  face  a  pair  of  freeborn  eyes,  but  fenced  him 
self  with  etiquette,  and  within  triple  barriers  of  reserve; 
and,  as  all  the  world  knows  from  Madame  de  Stael,  was 


MANNERS  235 

wont,  when  he  found  himself  observed,  to  discharge  his  face 
of  all  expression.  But  emperors  and  rich  men  are  by  no 
means  the  most  skilful  masters  of  good  manners.  No  rent- 
roll  nor  army-list  can  dignify  skulking  and  dissimulation: 
and  the  first  point  of  courtesy  must  always  be  truth,  as 
really  all  the  forms  of  good-breeding  point  that  way. 

I  have  just  been  reading,  in  Mr.  Hazlitt's  translation, 
Montaigne's  account  of  his  journey  into  Italy,  and  am 
struck  with  nothing  more  agreeably  than  the  self-respecting 
fashions  of  the  time.  His  arrival  in  each  place,  the  arrival 
of  a  gentleman  of  France,  is  an  event  of  some  consequence. 
Wherever  he  goes,  he  pays  a  visit  to  whatever  prince  or 
gentleman  of  note  resides  upon  his  road,  as  a  duty  to  him 
self  and  to  civilization.  When  he  leaves  any  house  in  which 
he  has  lodged  for  a  few  weeks,  he  causes  his  arms  to  be 
painted  and  hung  up  as  a  perpetual  sign  to  the  house,  as 
was  the  custom  of  gentlemen. 

The  complement  of  this  graceful  self-respect,  and  that 
of  all  the  points  of  good  breeding  I  most  require  and  insist 
upon,  is  deference.  I  like  that  every  chair  should  be  a 
throne,  and  hold  a  king.  I  prefer  a  tendency  to  stateliness, 
to  an  excess  of  fellowship.  Let  the  incommunicable  ob 
jects  of  nature  and  the  metaphysical  isolation  of  man  teach 
us  independence.  Let  us  not  be  too  much  acquainted.  I 
would  have  a  man  enter  his  house  through  a  hall  filled  with 
heroic  and  sacred  sculptures,  that  he  might  not  want  the 
hint  of  tranquillity  and  self-poise.  We  should  meet  each 
morning,  as  from  foreign  countries,  and  spending  the  day 
together,  should  depart  at  night,  as  into  foreign  countries. 
In  all  things  I  would  have  the  island  of  a  man  inviolate.  Let 
us  sit  apart  as  the  gods,  talking  from  peak  to  peak  all  round 
Olympus.  No  degree  of  affection  need  invade  this  religion. 
This  is  myrrh  and  rosemary  to  keep  the  other  sweet.  Lovers 
should  guard  their  strangeness.  If  they  forgive  too  much, 
all  slides  into  confusion  and  meanness.  It  is  easy  to  push 
this  deference  to  a  Chinese  etiquette;  but  coolness  and 
absence  of  heat  and  haste  indicate  fine  qualities.  A  gentle 
man  makes  no  noise:  a  lady  is  serene.  Proportionate  is 
our  disgust  at  those  invaders  who  fill  a  studious  house  with 


236  MANNERS 

blast  or  running,  to  secure  some  paltry  convenience.  Not 
less  I  dislike  a  low  sympathy  of  each  with  his  neighbor's 
needs.  Must  we  have  a  good  understanding  with  one  another's 
palates?  as  foolish  people  who  have  lived  long  together, 
know  when  each  wants  salt  or  sugar.  I  pray  my  companion^ 
if  he  wishes  for  bread,  to  ask  me  for  bread,  and  if  he  wishes 
for  sassafras  or  arsenic,  to  ask  me  for  them,  and  not  to  hold 
out  his  plate,  as  if  I  knew  already.  Every  natural  function 
can  be  dignified  by  deliberation  and  privacy.  Let  us  leave 
hurry  to  slaves.  The  compliments  and  ceremonies  of  our 
breeding  should  signify,  however  remotely,  the  recollection 
of  the  grandeur  of  our  destiny. 

The  flower  of  courtesy  does  not  very  well  bide  handling, 
but  if  we  dare  to  open  another  leaf,  and  explore  what  parts 
go  to  its  conformation,  we  shall  find  also  an  intellectual 
quality.  To  the  leaders  of  men,  the  brain  as  well  as  the 
flesh  and  the  heart  must  furnish  a  proportion.  Defect  in 
manners  is  usually  the  defect  of  fine  perceptions.  Men  are 
too  coarsely  made  for  the  delicacy  of  beautiful  carriage  and 
customs.  It  is  not  quite  sufficient  to  good  breeding,  a 
union  of  kindness  and  independence.  We  imperatively 
require  a  perception  of,  and  a  homage  to  beauty  in  our  com 
panions.  Other  virtues  are  in  request  in  the  field  and 
workyard,  but  a  certain  degree  of  taste  is  not  to  be  spared 
in  those  we  sit  with.  I  could  better  eat  with  one  who  did 
not  respect  the  truth  or  the  laws,  than  with  a  sloven  and 
unpresentable  person.  Moral  qualities  rule  the  world,  but 
at  short  distances,  the  senses  are  despotic.  The  same  dis 
crimination  of  fit  and  fair  runs  out,  if  with  less  rigor,  into 
all  parts  of  life.  The  average  spirit  of  the  energetic  class 
is  good  sense,  acting  under  certain  limitations  and  to  cer 
tain  ends.  It  entertains  every  natural  gift.  Social  in  its  na 
ture,  it  respects  every  thing  which  tends  to  unite  men.  It 
delights  in  measure.  The  love  of  beauty  is  mainly  the  love 
of  measure  or  proportion.  The  person  who  screams,  or  uses 
the  superlative  degree,  or  converses  with  heat,  puts  whole 
drawing-rooms  to  flight.  If  you  wish  to  be  loved,  love  meas 
ure.  You  must  have  genius,  or  a  prodigious  usefulness,  if  you 
will  hide  the  want  of  measure.  This  perception  comes  in  to 


MANNERS  237 

polish  and  perfect  the  parts  of  the  social  instrument.  So 
ciety  will  pardon  much  to  genius  and  special  gifts,  but,  being 
in  its  nature  a  convention,  it  loves  what  is  conventional,  or 
what  belongs  to  coming  together.  That  makes  the  good 
and  bad  of  manners,  namely,  what  helps  or  hinders  fellow 
ship.  For  fashion  is  not  good  sense  absolute,  but  relative; 
not  good  sense  private,  but  good  sense  entertaining  company. 
It  hates  corners  and  sharp  points  of  character,  hates  quarrel 
some,  egotistical,  solitary,  and  gloomy  people;  hates  what 
ever  can  interfere  with  total  blending  of  parties;  whilst  it 
values  all  peculiarities  as  in  the  highest  degree  refreshing, 
which  can  consist  with  good  fellowship.  And  besides  the 
general  infusion  of  wit  to  heighten  civility,  the  direct 
splendor  of  intellectual  power  is  ever  welcome  in  fine  society 
as  the  costliest  addition  to  its  rule  and  its  credit. 

The  dry  light  must  shine  in  to  adorn  our  festival,  but  it 
must  be  tempered  and  shaded,  or  that  will  also  offend. 
Accuracy  is  essential  to  beauty,  and  quick  perceptions  to 
politeness,  but  not  too  quick  perceptions.  One  may  be  too 
punctual  and  too  precise.  He  must  leave  the  omniscience  of 
business  at  the  door,  when  he  comes  into  the  palace  of  beauty. 
Society  loves  Creole  natures,  and  sleepy,  languishing  manners, 
so  that  they  cover  sense,  grace,  and  good-will;  the  air  of 
drowsy  strength,  which  disarms  criticism;  perhaps,  because 
such  a  person  seems  to  reserve  himself  for  the  best  of  the 
game,  and  not  spend  himself  on  surfaces;  an  ignoring  eye, 
which  does  not  see  the  annoyances,  shifts,  and  inconven 
iences  that  cloud  the  brow  and  smother  the  voice  of  the 
sensitive. 

Therefore,  besides  personal  force  and  so  much  perception 
as  constitutes  unerring  taste,  society  demands,  in  its  patri 
cian  class,  another  element  already  intimated,  which  it  sig 
nificantly  terms  good-nature,  expressing  all  degrees  of  gener 
osity  from  the  lowest  willingness  and  faculty  to  oblige,  up 
to  the  heights  of  magnanimity  and  love.  Insight  we  must 
have,  or  we  shall  run  against  one  another,  and  miss  the  way 
to  our  food;  but  intellect  is  selfish  and  barren.  The  secret 
of  success  in  society,  is  a  certain  heartiness  and  sympathy.! 
A  man  who  is  not  happy  in  the  company,  cannot  find  any 


238  MANNERS 

word  in  his  memory  that  will  fit  the  occasion.  All  his 
information  is  a  little  impertinent.  A  man  who  is  happy 
there,  finds  in  every  turn  of  the  conversation  equally  lucky 
occasions  for  the  introduction  of  that  which  he  has  to  say. 
The  favorites  of  society,  and  what  it  calls  whole  souls,  are 
able  men,  and  of  more  spirit  than  wit,  who  have  no  uncomfort 
able  egotism,  but  who  exactly  fill  the  hour  and  the  company, 
contented  and  contenting,  at  a  marriage  or  a  funeral,  a  ball 
or  a  jury,  a  water-party  or  a  shooting-match.  England, 
which  is  rich  in  gentlemen,  furnished,  in  the  beginning  of  the 
present  century,  a  good  model  of  that  genius  which  the  world 
loves,  in  Mr.  Fox,  who  added  to  his  great  abilities  the  most 
social  disposition,  and  real  love  of  men.  Parliamentary 
history  has  few  better  passages  than  the  debate,  in  which 
Burke  and  Fox  separated  in  the  House  of  Commons;  when 
Fox  urged  on  his  old  friend  the  claims  of  old  friendship  with 
such  tenderness  that  the  house  was  moved  to  tears.  Another 
anecdote  is  so  close  to  my  matter,  that  I  must  hazard  the 
story.  A  tradesman  who  had  long  dunned  him  for  a  note  of 
three  hundred  guineas,  found  him  one  day  counting  gold, 
and  demanded  payment :  "No/'  said  Fox,  "I  owe  this  money 
to  Sheridan;  it  is  a  debt  of  honor:  if  an  accident  should 
happen  to  me,  he  has  nothing  to  show."  "Then,"  said  the 
creditor,  "I  change  my  debt  into  a  debt  of  honor,"  and  tore 
the  note  in  pieces.  Fox  thanked  the  man  for  his  confidence, 
and  paid  him,  saying,  "his  debt  was  of  older  standing,  and 
Sheridan  must  wait."  Lover  of  liberty,  friend  of  the  Hin 
doo,  friend  of  the  African  slave,  he  possessed  a  great  per 
sonal  popularity;  and  Napoleon  said  of  him  on  the  occasion 
of  his  visit  to  Paris,  in  1805,  "Mr  Fox  will  always  hold  the 
first  place  in  an  assembly  of  the  Tuileries." 

We  may  easily  seem  ridiculous  in  our  eulogy  of  courtesy, 
\\hcnever  we  insist  on  benevolence  as  its  foundation.  The 
painted  phantasm  Fashion  rises  to  cast  a  species  of  derision 
on  what  we  say.  But  I  will  neither  be  driven  from  some 
allowance  to  Fashion,  as  a  symbolic  institution,  nor  from 
the  belief  that  love  is  the  basis  of  courtesy.  We  must 
obtain  that,  if  we  can;  but  by  all  means  we  must  affirm 
this.  Life  owes  much  of  its  spirit  to  these  sharp  contrasts. 


MANNERS  239 

Fashion  which  affects  to  be  honor,  is  often,  in  all  men's 
experience,  only  a  ball-room  code.  Yet,  so  long  as  it  is  the 
highest  circle  in  the  imagination  of  the  best  heads  on  the 
planet,  there  is  something  necessary  and  excellent  in  it; 
for  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  men  have  agreed  to  be  the 
dupes  of  any  thing  preposterous;  and  the  respect  which 
these  mysteries  inspire  in  the  most  rude  and  sylvan  char 
acters,  and  the  curiosity  with  which  details  of  high  life 
are  read,  betray  the  universality  of  the  love  of  cultivated 
manners.  I  know  that  a  comic  disparity  would  be  felt,  if 
we  should  enter  the  acknowledged  "first  circles,11  and  apply 
these  terrific  .standards  of  justice,  beauty,  and  benefit,  to 
the  individuals  actually  found  there.  Monarchs  and  heroes, 
sages  and  lovers,  these  gallants  are  not.  Fashion  has  many 
classes  and  many  rules  of  probation  and  admission;  and 
not  the  best  alone.  There  is  not  only  the  right  of  conquest, 
which  genius  pretends. — the  individual  demonstrating  his 
natural  aristocracy  best  of  the  best; — but  less  claims  will 
pass  for  the  time;  for  Fashion  loves  lions,  and  points,  like 
Circe,  to  her  horned  company.  This  gentleman  is  this 
afternoon  arrived  from  Denmark;  and  that  is  my  Lord  Ride, 
who  came  yesterday  from  Bagdat;  here  is  Captain  Friese, 
from  Cape  Turnagain;  and  Captain  Symmes,  from  the  in 
terior  of  the  earth;  and  Monsieur  Jovaire,  who  came  down 
this  morning  in  a  balloon;  Mr.  Hobnail,  the  reformer;  and 
Reverend  Jul  Bat,  who  has  converted  the  whole  torrid  zone 
in  his  Sunday-school;  and  Signor  Torre  del  Greco,  who  ex 
tinguished  Vesuvius,  by  pouring  into  it  the  Bay  of  Naples; 
Spahi,  the  Persian  ambassador;  and  Tul  Wil  Shan,  the  exiled 
nabob  of  Nepaul,  whose  saddle  is  the  new  moon.  — But 
these  are  monsters  of  one  day,  and  to-morrow  will  be  dis 
missed  to  their  holes  and  dens;  for,  in  these  rooms,  every 
chair  is  waited  for.  The  artist,  the  scholar,  and,  in  general, 
the  clerisy,  wins  its  way  up  into  these  places,  and  gets  rep- 
'  resented  here,  somewhat  on  this  footing  of  conquest. 
Another  mode  is  to  pass  throuugh  all  the  degrees,  spending 
a  year  and  a  day  in  St.  Michael's  Square,  being  steeped  in 
Cologne  water,  and  perfumed,  and  dined,  and  introduced, 
and  properly  grounded  in  all  the  biography,  and  politics,  and 


240  MANNERS 

anedotes  of  the  boudoirs. 

Yet  these  fineries  may  have  grace  and  wit.  Let  there  be 
grotesque  sculpture  about  the  gates  and  offices  of  temples. 
Let  the  creed  and  commandments  even  have  the  saucy  hom 
age  of  parody.  The  forms  of  politeness  universally  express 
benevolence  in  superlative  degrees.  What  if  they  are  in 
the  mouths  of  selfish  men,  and  used  as  means  of  selfishness? 
What  if  the  false  gentleman  almost  bows  the  true  out  of 
the  world?  What  if  the  false  gentleman  contrives  so  to 
address  his  companion,  as  civilly  to  exclude  all  others  from 
his  discourse,  and  also  to  make  them  feel  excluded?  Real 
service  will  not  lose  its  nobleness.  All  generosity  is  not  merely 
French  and  sentimental ;  nor  is  it  to  be  concealed,  that  living 
blood  and  a  passion  of  kindness  does  at  last  distinguish  God's 
gentleman  from  Fashion's.  The  epitaph  of  Sir  Jenkin 
Grout  is  not  wholly  unintelligible  to  the  present  age. 
"Here  lies  Sir  Jenkin  Grout,  who  loved  his  friend,  and  per 
suaded  his  enemy:  what  his  mouth  ate,  his  hand  paid  for: 
what  his  servants  robbed,  he  restored:  if  a  woman  gave  him 
pleasure,  he  supported  her  in  pain:  he  never  forgot  his 
children:  and  whoso  touched  his  finger,  drew  after  it  his 
whole  body."  Even  the  line  of  heroes  is  not  utterly  extinct. 
There  is  still  ever  some  admirable  person  in  plain  clothes, 
standing  on  the  wharf,  who  jumps  in  to  rescue,  a  drowning 
man;  there  is  still  some  absurd  inventor  of  charities;  some 
guide  and  comforter  of  run-away  slaves;  some  friend  of 
Poland;  some  Philhellene;  some  fanatic  who  plants  shade- 
trees  for  the  second  and  third  generation,  and  orchards 
when  he  is  grown  old;  some  well-concealed  piety;  some 
just  man  happy  in  an  ill-fame;  some  youth  ashamed  of  the 
favors  of  fortune,  and  impatiently  casting  them  on  other 
shoulders.  And  these  are  the  centers  of  society,  on  which  it 
returns  for  fresh  impulses.  These  are  the  creators  of 
Fashion,  which  is  an  attempt  to  organize  beauty  of  be 
havior.  The  beautiful  and  the  generous  are,  in  the  theory, 
the  doctors  and  apostles  of  this  church:  Scipio,  and  the 
Cid,  and  Sir  Phillip  Sidney,  and  Washington,  and  every  pure 
and  valiant  heart,  who  worshipped  Beauty  by  word  and  by 
deed.  The  persons  who  constitute  the  natural  aristocracy,  > 


MANNERS  241 

are  not  found  in  the  actual  aristocracy,  or,  only  on  its  edge; 
as  the  chemical  energy  of  the  spectrum  is  found  to  be  great 
est,  just  outside  of  the  spectrum.  Yet  that  is  the  infirmity  of 
the  seneschals,  who  do  not  know  their  sovereign  when  he 
appears.  The  theory  of  society  supposes  the  existence  and 
sovereignty  of  these.  It  divines  afar  off  their  coming.  It 
says  with  the  elder  gods, — 

"As  Heaven  and  Earth  are  fairer  far 
Than  Chaos  and  blank  Darkness,  though  once  chiefs; 
And  as  we  show  beyond  that  Heaven  and  Earth, 
In  form  and  shape  compact  and  beautiful; 
So,  on  our  heels  a  fresh  perfection  treads; 
A  power,  more  strong  in  beauty,  born  of  us, 
And  fated  to  excel  us,  as  we  pass 
In  glory  that  old  Darkness: 
— for,  'tis  the  eternal  law, 
That  first  in  beauty  shall  be  first  in  might." 

Therefore,  within  the  ethnical  circle  of  good  society,  there 
id  a  narrower  and  higher  circle,  concentration  of  its  light, 
and  flower  of  courtesy,  to  which  there  is  always  a  tacit 
appeal  of  pride  and  reference,  as  to  its  inner  and  imperial 
court,  the  parliament  of  love  and  chivalry.  And  this  is  con 
stituted  of  those  persons  in  whom  heroic  dispositions  are 
native,  with  the  love  of  beauty,  the  delight  in  society,  and 
the  power  to  embellish  the  passing  day.  If  the  individuals 
who  compose  the  purest  circles  of  aristocracy  in  Europe, 
the  guarded  blood  of  centuries,  should  pass  in  review,  in 
such  a  manner  as  that  we  could,  at  leisure,  and  critically, 
inspect  their  behavior,  we  might  find  no  gentleman,  and  no 
lady;  for,  although  excellent  specimens  of  courtesy  and  high- 
breeding  would  gratify  us  in  the  assemblage,  in  the  parti 
culars  we  should  detect  offense;  because  elegance  comes  of 
no  breeding,  but  of  birth.  There  must  be  romance  of 
character,  or  the  most  fastidious  exclusion  of  impertinencies 
will  not  avail.  It  must  be  genius  which  takes  that  direction: 
it  must  be  not  courteous,  but  courtesy.  High  behavior  is 
as  rare  in  fiction,  as  it  is  in  fact.  Scott  is  praised  for  the 
fidelity  with  which  he  painted  the  demeanor  and  conver 
sation  of  the  superior  classes.  Certainly,  kings  and  queens, 


242  MANNERS 

nobles  and  great  ladies,  had  some  right  to  complain  of  the 
absurdity  that  had  been  put  in  their  mouths,  before  the 
days  of  Waverley:  but  neither  does  Scott's  dialogue  bear 
criticism.  His  lords  brave  each  other  in  smart  epigram 
matic  speeches,  but  the  dialogue  is  in  costume,  and  does  not 
please  on  the  second  reading:  it  is  not  warm  with  life. 
In  Shakspeare  alone,  the  speakers  do  not  strut  and  bridle, 
the  dialogue  is  easily  great,  and  he  is  the  best-bred  man  in 
all  England,  in  all  Christendom.  Once  or  twice,  in  real  life, 
we  are  permitted  to  enjoy  the  charm  of  noble  manners,  in 
the  presence  of  a  man  or  woman  who  have  no  bar  in  their 
nature,  but  whose  character  emanates  freely  in  their  word 
and  gesture.  A  beautiful  form  is  better  than  a  beautiful 
face;  a  beautiful  behavior  is  better  than  a  beautiful  form: 
it  gives  a  higher  pleasure  than  statues  or  pictures;  it  is  the 
finest  of  the  fine  arts.  A  man  is  but  a  little  thing  in  the 
midst  of  the  objects  of  nature,  yet,  by  the  moral  quality 
radiating  from  his  countenance,  he  may  abolish  all  con 
siderations  of  magnitude,  and  in  his  manners  equal  the 
majesty  of  the  world.  I  have  seen  an  individual,  whose 
manners,  though  wholly  within  the  conventions  of  elegant 
society,  were  never  learned  there,  but  were  original  and 
commanding,  and  held  out  protection  and  prosperity;  one 
who  did  not  need  the  aid  of  a  court-suit,  but  carried  the 
holiday  in  his  eye;  who  exhilarated  the  fancy  by  flinging 
wide  the  doors  of  new  modes  of  existence;  who  shook  off 
the  captivity  of  etiquette,  with  happy,  spirited  bearing, 
good-natured  and  free  as  Robin  Hood;  yet  with  the  port  of 
an  emperor, — if  need  be,  calm,  serious,  and  fit  to  stand  the 
gaze  of  millions. 

The  open  air  and  the  fields,  the  streets  and  public  cham 
bers,  are  the  places  where  man  executes  his  will;  let  him 
yield  or  divide  the  sceptre  at  the  door  of  the  house.  Wom 
an,  with  her  instinct  of  behavior,  instantly  detects  in  man 
a  love  of  trifles,  any  coldness  or  imbecility,  or,  in  short,  any 
want  of  that  large,  flowing,  and  a  magnanimous  deportment, 
which  is  indispensable  as  an  exterior  in  the  hall.  Our 
American  institutions  have  been  friendly  to  her,  and,  at  this 
moment,  I  esteem  it  a  chief  felicity  of  this  country,  that  it 


MANNERS  243 

excels  in  women.  A  certain  awkward  consciousness  of 
inferiority  in  the  men,  may  give  rise  to  the  new  chivalry  in 
behalf  of  Women's  Rights.  Certainly,  let  her  be  as  much 
better  placed  in  the  laws  and  in  social  forms,  as  the  most 
zealous  reformer  can  ask,  but  I  confide  so  entirely  in  her  in 
spiring  and  musical  nature,  that  I  believe  only  herself  can 
show  us  how  she  shall  be  served.  The  wonderful  generosity 
of  her  sentiments  raises  her  at  times  into  heroical  and  godlike 
regions,  and  verifies  the  pictures  of  Minerva,  Juno,  or  Polym- 
nia;  and,  by  the  firmness  with  which  she  treads  her  upward 
path,  she  convinces  the  coarsest  calculators  that  another 
road  exists,  than  that  which  their  feet  know.  But  besides 
those  who  make  good  in  our  imagination  the  place  of  muses 
and  of  Delphic  Sybils,  are  there  not  women  who  fill  our 
vase  with  wine  and  roses  to  the  brim,  so  that  the  wine  runs 
over  and  fills  the  house  with  perfume ;  who  inspire  us  with 
courtesy;  who  unloose  our  tongues,  and  we  speak;  who 
annoint  our  eyes,  and  we  see?  We  say  things  we  never 
thought  to  have  said;  for  once,  our  walls  of  habitual 
reserve  vanished,  and  left  us  at  large;  we  were  children 
playing  with  children  in  a  wide  field  of  flowers.  Steep  us, 
we  cried,  in  these  influences  for  days,  for  weeks,  and  we 
shall  be  sunny  poets,  and  will  write  out  in  many-colored 
words  the  romance  that  you  are.  Was  it  Hafiz  or  Firdousi 
that  said  of  his  Persian,  Lilla,  she  was  an  elemental  force, 
and  astonished  me  by  her  amount  of  life,  when  I  saw  her 
day  after  day  radiating,  every  instant,  redundant  joy  and 
grace  on  all  around  her?  She  was  a  solvent  powerful  to  rec 
oncile  all  heterogeneous  persons  into  one  society.  Like  air 
or  water,  an  element  of  such  a  great  range  of  affinities,  that 
it  combines  readily  with  a  thousand  substances.  Where  she 
is  present*  all  others  will  be  more  than  they  are  wont.  She 
was  a  unit  and  whole,  so  that  whatsoever  she  did,  became 
her.  She  had  too  much  sympathy  and  desire  to  please, 
than  that  you  could  say,  her  manners  were  marked  with  dig 
nity,  yet  no  princess  could  surpass  her  clear  and  direct 
demeanor  on  each  occasion.  She  did  not  study  the  Persian 
grammar,  nor  the  books  of  the  seven  poets,  but  all  the  poems 
of  the  seven  seemed  to  be  written  upon  her.  For,  though 


244  MANNERS 

the  bias  of  her  nature  was  not  to  thought,  but  to  sympathy, 
yet  was  she  so  perfect  in  her  own  nature,  as  to  meet  intel 
lectual  persons  by  the  fullness  of  her  heart,  warming  them  by 
her  sentiments;  believing,  as  she  did,  that  by  dealing  nobly 
with  all,  all  would  show  themselves  noble. 

I  know  that  this  Byzantine  pile  of  Chivalry  or  Fashion, 
which  seems  so  fair  and  picturesque  to  those  who  look  at 
the  contemporary  facts  for  science  or  for  entertainment,  is 
not  equally  pleasant  to  all  spectators.  The  constitution  of 
our  society  makes  it  a  giant's  castle  to  the  ambitious  youth 
who  have  not  found  their  names  enrolled  in  its  Golden  Book, 
and  whom  it  has  excluded  from  its  coveted  honors  and  priv 
ileges.  They  have  yet  to  learn  that  its  seeming  grandeur 
is  shadowy  and  relative:  it  is  great  by  their  allowance:  its 
proudest  gates  will  fly  open  at  the -approach  of  their  cour 
age  and  virtue.  For  the  present  distress,  however,  of  those 
who  are  predisposed  to  suffer  from  the  tyrannies  of  this 
caprice,  there  are  easy  remedies.  To  remove  your  re 
sistance  a  couple  of  miles,  or  at  most  four,  will  commonly 
relieve  the  most  extreme  susceptibility.  For,  the  advantages 
which  fashion  values,  are  plants,  which  thrive  in  very  con 
fined  localities,  in  a  few  streets,  namely.  Out  of  this  pre 
cinct,  they  go  for  nothing;  are  of  no  use  in  the  farm,  in 
the  forest,  in  the  market,  in  war,  in  the  nuptial  society,  in 
the  literary  or  scientific  circle,  at  sea,  in  friendship,  in  the 
heaven  of  thought  or  virtue. 

But  we  have  lingered  long  enough  in  these  painted  courts. 
The  worth  of  the  thing  signified  must  vindicate  our  taste 
for  the  emblem.  Every  thing  that  is  called  fashion  and 
courtesy  humbles  itself  before  the  cause  and  fountain  of 
honor,  creator  of  titles  and  dignities,  namely,  the  great 
heart  of  love.  This  is  the  royal  blood,  this  the  fire,  which, 
in  all  countries  and  contingencies,  will  work  after  its  kind, 
and  conquer  and  expand  all  that  approaches  it.  This  gives 
new  meanings  to  every  fact.  This  impoverishes  the  rich, 
suffering  no  grandeur  but  its  own.  What  is  rich?  Are  you 
rich  enough  to  help  anybody?  co  succor  the  unfashionable 


MANNERS  245 

and  the  eccentric?  rich  enough  to  make  the  Canadian  in 
his  wagon,  the  itinerant  with  his  consul's  paper  which 
commends  him  "to  the  charitable,"  the  swarthy  Italian  with 
his  few  broken  words  of  English,  the  lame  pauper  hunted 
by  overseers  from  town  to  town,  even  the  pool  insane  be 
sotted  wreck  of  man  or  woman,  feel  the  noble  exception  of 
your  presence  and  your  house,  from  the  general  bleakness 
and  stoniness;  to  make  such  feel  that  they  were  greeted  with 
a  voice  which  made  them  both  remember  and  hope?  What 
is  vulgar,  but  to  refuse  the  claim  on  acute  and  conclusive 
reasons?  What  is  gentle,  but  to  allow  it,  and  give  their 
heart  and  yours  one  holiday  from  the  national  caution? 
Without  the  rich  heart,  wealth  is  an  ugly  beggar.  The 
king  of  Schiraz  could  not  afford  to  be  so  bountiful  as  the 
poor  Osman  who  dwelt  at  his  gate.  Osman  had  a  humanity 
so  broad  and  deep,  that  although  his  speech  was  so  bold  and 
free  with  the  Koran,  as  to  disgust  all  the  dervishes,  yet  was 
there  never  a  poor  outcast,  eccentric,  or  insane  man,  some 
fool  who  had  cut  off  his  beard,  or  who  had  been  mutilated 
under  a  vow,  or  had  a  pet  madness  in  his  brain,  but  fled 
at  once  to  him, — that  great  heart  lay  there  so  sunny  and 
hospitable  in  the  center  of  the  country, — that  it  seemed  as 
if  the  instinct  of  all  sufferers  drew  them  to  his  side.  And 
the  madness  which  he  harbored,  he  did  not  share.  Is  not 
this  to  be  rich?  this  only  to  be  rightly  rich? 

But  I  shall  hear  without  pain,  that  I  play  the  courtier 
very  ill,  and  talk  of  that  which  I  do  not  well  understand. 
It  is  easy  to  see,  that  what  is  called  by  distinction  soc 
iety  and  fashion,  has  good  laws  as  well  as  bad,  has  much 
that  is  necessary,  and  much  that  is  absurd.  Too  good  for 
banning,  and  too  bad  for  blessing,  it  reminds  us  of  a  tradition 
of  the  pagan  mythology,  in  any  attempt  to  settle  its  char 
acter.  "I  overheard  Jove,  one  day/''  said  Silenus,  "talking 
of  destroying  the  earth;  he  said,  it  had  failed;  they  were  all 
rogues  and  vixens,  who  went  from  bad  to  worse,  as  fast  as 
the  days  succeeded  each  other.  Minerva  said,  she  hoped 
not;  they  were  only  ridiculous  little  creatures,  with  this  odd 
circumstance,  that  they  had  a  blur,  or  indeterminate  aspect, 


246  MANNERS 

seen  far  or  seen  near :  if  you  called  them  bad,  they  would  ap 
pear  so ;  if  you  called  them  good,  they  would  appear  so ;  and 
there  was  no  one  person  or  action  among  them  which  would 
flot  puzzle  her  owl,  much  more  all  Olympus,  to  know  whether 
it  was  fundamentally  bad  or  good." 


xn 

POLITICS 

Gold  and  iron  are  good 

To  buy  iron  and  gold; 

All  earth's  fleece  and  food 

For  their  like  are  sold. 

Boded  Merlin  wise, 

Proved  Napoleon  great,  — 

Nor  kind  nor  coinage  buys 

Aught  above  its  rate. 

Fear,  Craft,  and  Avarice 

Cannot  rear  a  State. 

Out  of  dust  to  build 

What  is  more  than  dust,  — 

Walls  Amphion  piled 

Phoebus  stablish  must. 

When  the  Muses  nine 

With  the  Virtues  meet, 

Find  to  their  design 

An  Atlantic  seat, 

By  green  orchard  boughs 

Fended  from  the  heat, 

Where  the  statesman  ploughs 

Furrow  for  the  wheat; 

When  the  Church  is  social  worth, 

When  the  state-house  is  the  hearth 

Then  the  perfect  State  is  come, 

The  republican  at  home. 

IN  dealing  with  the  State,  we  ought  to  remember  that  its 
institutions  are  not  aboriginal,  though  they  existed  before 
we  were  born:/ that  they  are  not  superior  to  the  citizen:  that 
every  one  of  tKem  was  once  the  act  of  a  single  manj  every 
law  and  usage  was  a  man's  expedient  to  meet  a"  particular 
case:1  that  they  all  are  imitable,  all  alterable;  we  may  make 
as  good:  we  may  make  better.  Society  is  an  illusion  to  the 
young  citizen.  It  lies  before  him  in  rigid  repose,  with  cer- 

247 


248^  POLITICS 

tain  names,  men,  and  institutions,  rooted  like  oak-trees  to 
the  center,  round  which  all  arrange  themselves  the  best  they 
can.  But  the  old  statesman  knows  that  sojfiejfcyisfluid ; 
there  are  no  such  roots  and  centers;  but  any  particleinay 
suddenly  become  the  center  of  the  movement,  and  compel 
the  system  to  gyrate  round  it,  as  every  man  of  strong  will, 
like  Pisistratus,  or  Cromwell,  does  for  a  time,  and  every 
man  of  truth,  like  Plato,  or  Paul,  does  for  ever.  But  pol- 
itics  rest  on  necessary  foundations,  and  cannot  be  treated 
with  levity.  Republics  abound  in  young  civilians,  who  be 
lieve  that  the  laws  make  the  city;  that  grave  modifications  of 
the  policy  and  modes  of  living,  and  employments  of  the 
population;  that  commerce,  education,  and  religion,  may  be 
voted  in  or  out;  and  that  any  measure,  though  it  were 
absurd,  may  be  imposed  on  a  people,  if  only  you  can  get 
sufficient  voices  to  make  it  a  law.  But  the  wise  know  that 
foolish  legislation  is  a  rope  of  sand,  which  perishes  in  the 
twisting;  [that  the_State  must  jollow.  and  not  lead  the  char 
acter  and  progress  of  the  citizen)  the  strongest  usurper  is 
quickly  got  rid  of;  and  they  only  who  build  on  Ideas,  build 
for  eternity:  and  that  the  form  of  government  which  pre 
vails,  is  the  expression  of  what  cultivation  exists  in  the  pop 
ulation  which  permits  it.  The  law  is  only  a  memorandum. 
We  are  superstitious,  and  esteem  the  statute  somewhat :  so 
much  life  as  it  has  in  the  character  of  living  men,  is  its 
force.  The  statute  stands  there  to  say,  yesterday  we 
agreed  so  and  so,  but  how  feel  ye  this  article  to-day?  Our 
statute  is  a  currency,  which  we  stamp  with  our  own  por- 
tMfr:  it  soon  becomes  imrej&gnkable,  and  in  process  of  time 
will  return  to  the  mint.  Nature  is  not  democratic,  nor 
limited-monarchical,  but  despotic,  and  will  not  be  fooled  or 
abated  of  any  jot  of  her  authority,  by  the  pertest  of  her  sons: 
and  as  fast  as  the  public  mind  is  open  to  more  intelligence, 
the  code  is  seen  to  be  brute  and  stammering.  It  speaks 
not  articulately,  and  must  be  made  to.  Meantime  the 
education  of  the  general  mind  never  stops.  The  reveries 
of  trie  true  and  simple  are  prophetic.  What  the  tender 
poetic^j^ujji  dreams,  and  prays,  and  paints  to-day,  but 
shuns  the  ridicule  of  saying  aloud,  shall  presently  be  the 


POLITICS  249 

resolutions  of  public  bodies,  then  shall  be  carried  as  griev- 
"ance  and  bill  of  rights  through  conflict  and  war,  and  then 
shall  be  triumphant  law  and  establishment  for  a  hundred 
years,  until  it  gives  place,  in  turn,  to  new  prayers  and  pic 
tures.  The  history  of  the  State  sketches  in  coarse  outline 
the  progress  of  thought,  and  follows  at  a  distance  the  del 
icacy  of  culture  and  of  aspiration. 

The  theory  of  politics,  which  has  possessed  the  mind  of 
men,  and  which  they  have  expressed  the  best  they  could  in 
their  laws  and  in  their  revolutions,  considers  persons  and 
property  as  the  two  objects  for  whose  protection  govern 
ment  exists.  Of  persons,  all  have  equal  rights,  in  virtue  of 
being  identical  in  nature.  This  interest,  of  course,  with  its 
whole  power  demands  a  democracy.  Whilst  the  rights  of 
all  as  persons  are  equal, in  virtue  of  their  access  to  reason,  their 
rights  in  property  are  very  unequal.  One  man  owns  his 
clothes,  and  another  owns  a  county.  This  accident,  de 
pending,  primarily,  on  the  skill  and  virtue  of  the  parties,  of 
which  there  is  every  degree,  and,  secondarily,  on  patrimony, 
falls  unequally,  and  its  rights,  of  course,  are  unequal. 
Personal  rights,  universally  the  same,  demand  a  government 
framed  on  the  ratio  of  the  census :  property  demands  a  gov 
ernment  framed  on  the  ratio  of  owners  and  of  owning. 
Laban,  who  has  flocks  and  herds,  wishes  them  looked  after  by 
an  officer  on  the  frontiers,  lest  the  Midianites  shall  drive 
them  off,  and  pays  a  tax  to  that  end.  Jacob  has  no  flocks 
or  herds,  and  no  fear  of  the  Midianites,  and  pays  no  tax  to 
the  officer.  It  seemed  fit  that  Laban  and  Jacob  should  have 
equal  rights  to  elect  the  officer,  who  is  to  defend  their  per 
sons,  but  that  Laban,  and  not  Jacob,  should  elect  the  officer 
who  is  to  guard  the  sheep  and  cattle.  And,  if  the  question 
arise  whether  additional  officers  or  watch-towers  should  be 
provided,  must  not  Laban  and  Isaac,  and  those  who  must 
sell  part  of  their  herds  to  buy  protection  for  the  rest,  judge 
better  of  this,  and  with  more  right,  than  Jacob,  who,  because 
he  is  a  youth  and  a  traveller,  eats  their  bread  and  not  his 
own. 

In  the  earliest  society  the  proprietors  made  their  own 
wealth,  and  so  long  as  it  comes  to  the  owners  in  the  direct 


250  POLITICS 

way,  no  other  opinion  would  arise  in  any  equitable  com 
munity,  than  that  property  should  make  the  law  for  prop 
erty,  and  persons  the  law  for  persons. 

But  property  passes  through  donation  or  inheritance  to 
those  who  do  not  create  it.  Gift,  in  one  case,  makes  it  as 
really  the  new  owner's,  as  labor  made  it  the  first  owner's: 
in  the  other  case,  of  patrimony,  the  law  makes  an  owner 
ship,  which  will  be  valid  in  each  man's  view  according  to 
the  estimate  which  he  sets  on  the  public  tranquillity. 

It  was  not,  however,  found  easy  to  embody  the  readily- 
admitted  principle,  that  property  should  make  law  for 
property,  and  persons  for  persons:  since  persons  and  prop 
erty  mixed  themselves  in  every  transaction.  At  last  it 
seemed  settled,  that  the  rightful  distinction  was,  that  the 
proprietors  should  have  more  elective  franchise  than  non- 
proprietors,  on  the  Spartan  principle  of  "calling  that  which 
is  just,  equal;  not  that  which  is  equal,  just." 

That  principle  no  longer  looks  so  self-evident  as  it  ap 
peared  in  former  times,  partly,  because  doubts  have  arisen 
whether  too  much  weight  had  not  been  allowed  in  the  laws 
to  property,  and  such  a  structure  given  to  our  usages,  as 
allowed  the  rich  to  encroach  on  the  poor,  and  to  keep  them 
poor;  but  mainly,  because  there  is  an  instinctive  sense,  how 
ever  obscure  and  yet  inarticulate,  that  the  whole  constitution 
of  property,  on  its  present  tenures,  is  injurious,  and  its  in 
fluence  on  persons  deteriorating  and  degrading;  that  truly, 
the  only  interest  for  the  consideration  of  the  State,  is  per 
sons:  that  property  will  always  follow  persons;  that  the 
highest  end  of  government  is  the  culture  of  men :  and  if  men 
can  be  educated,  the  institutions  will  share  their  improve 
ment,  and  the  moral  sentiment  will  write  the  law  of  the  land. 

If  it  be  not  easy  to  settle  the  equity  of  this  question,  the 
peril  is  less  when  we  take  note  of  our  natural  defences.  We 
are  kept  by  better  guards  than  the  vigilance  of  such  mag 
istrates  as  we  commonly  elect.  Society  always  consists,  in 
greatest  part,  of  young  and  foolish  persons.  The  old,  who 
have  seen  through  the  hypocrisy  of  courts  and  statesmen, 
die,  and  leave  no  wisdom  to  their  sons.  They  believe  their 
own  newspapers,  as  their  fathers  did  at  their  age.  With 


POLITICS  251 

such  an  ignorant  and  deceivable  majority,  States  would  soon 
run  to  ruin,  but  that  there  are  limitations,  beyond  which 
the  folly  and  ambition  of  governors  cannot  go.  Things  have 
their  laws,  as  well  as  men;  and  things  refuse  to  be  trifled 
with.  Property  will  be  protected.  Corn  will  not  grow, 
unless  it  is  planted  and  manured;  but  the  farmer  will  not 
plant  or  hoe  it  unless  the  chances  are  a  hundred  to  one,  that 
he  will  cut  and  harvest  it.  Under  any  forms,  persons  and 
property  must  and  will  have  their  just  sway.  They  exert 
their  power,  as  steadily  as  matter  its  attraction.  Cover 
up  a  pound  of  earth  never  so  cunningly,  divide  and  sub 
divide  it;  melt  it  to  liquid,  convert  it  to  gas;  it  will  always 
weigh  a  pound:  it  will  always  attract  and  resist  other 
matter,  by  the  full  virtue  of  one  pound  weight; —  and  the 
attributes  of  a  person,  his  wit  and  his  moral  energy,  will 
exercise,  under  any  law  or  extinguishing  tyranny,  their  prop 
er  force, — if  not  overtly,  then  covertly;  if  not  for  the  law, 
then  against  it;  with  right,  or  by  might. 

The  boundaries  of  personal  influence  it  is  impossible  to  fix, 
as  persons  are  organs  of  moral  or  supernatural  force.  Under 
the  dominion  of  an  idea,  which  possesses  the  minds  of  multi 
tudes,  as  civil  freedom,  or  the  religious  sentiment,  the  powers 
of  persons  are  no  longer  subjects  of  calculation.  A  nation 
of  men  unanimously  bent  on  freedom,  or  conquest,  can 
easily  confound  the  arithmetic  of  statists,  and  achieve  ex 
travagant  actions,  out  of  all  proportion  to  their  means;  as 
the  Greeks,  the  Saracens,  the  Swiss,  the  Americans,  and  the 
French  have  done. 

In  like  manner,  to  every  particle  of  property  belongs  its 
own  attraction.  A  cent  is  the  representative  of  a  certain 
quantity  of  corn  or  other  commodity.  Its  value  is  in  the 
necessities  of  the  animal  man.  It  is  so  much  warmth,  so 
much  bread,  so  much  water,  so  much  land.  The  law  may  do 
what  it  will  with  the  owner  of  property,  its  just  power  will 
still  attach  to  the  cent.  The  law  may  in  a  mad  freak  say, 
that  all  shall  have  power  except  the  owners  of  property;  they 
shall  have  no  vote.  Nevertheless,  by  a  higher  law,  the 
property  will,  year  after  year,  write  every  statute  that  re 
spects  property.  The  non-proprietor  will  be  the  scribe  of 


252  POLITICS 

the  proprietor.  What  the  owners  wish  to  do,  the  whole 
power  of  property  will  do,  either  through  the  law,  or  else  in 
defiance  of  it.  Of  course,  I  speak  of  all  the  property,  not 
merely  of  the  great  estates.  When  the  rich  are  out-voted, 
as  frequently  happens,  it  is  the  joint  treasury  of  the  poor 
which  exceeds  their  accumulations.  Every  man  owns  some 
thing,  if  it  is  only  a  cow  or  a  wheelbarrow,  or  his  arms,  and 
so  has  that  property  to  dispose  of. 

The  same  necessity  which  secures  the  rights  of  person  and 
property  against  the  malignity  or  folly  of  the  magistrate, 
determines  the  form  and  methods  of  governing,  which  are 
proper  to  each  nation,  and  to  its  habit  of  thought,  and  nowise 
transferable  to  other  states  of  society.  In  this  country,  we 
are  very  vain  of  our  political  institutions,  which  are  singular 
in  this,  that  they  sprung,  within  the  memory  of  living  men, 
from  the  character  and  condition  of  the  people,  which  they 
still  express  with  sufficient  fidelity, — and  we  ostentatiously 
prefer  them  to  any  other  in  history.  They  are  not  better, 

but  only  fitter  for  us.  We  may  be  wise  in  asserting  the  advan 
tage  in  modern  times  of  the  democratic  form,  but  to  other 
states  of  society,  in  which  religion  consecrated  the  monarch 
ical,  that,  and  not  this,  was  expedient.  I )emocracy  is. better  for 
us^  because  the  religious  sentiment  of  the  present  time 
accords  betto- with  it.  Born  democrats,  we  are  nowise 
qualified  to  judge  of  monarchy,  which,  to  our  fathers  living 
in  the  monarchical  idea,  was  also  relatively  right.  But  our 
institutions,  though  in  coincidence  with  the  spirit  of  the  age, 
have  not  any  exemption  from  the  practical  defects  which 
have  discredited  other  forms.  Evcjy  actnuUj&ate  is  corrupt. 
Good  men  must  not  Qfrey  the  laws  too  well.  What  satire  on 
government  TJan  equal  the  severitjr  of  censure  conveyed  in 
the  word  gol^jc^whichjoow  for  ages  has  signified  cunning, 
intimating  that  the  StateJJLfl  trick? 

""The  same  benign  ^necessity  and  the  same  practical  abuse 
appear  in  the  parties  into  which  each  State  divides  itself,  of 
opponents  and  defenders  of  the  administration  of  the  gov 
ernment.  Parties  are  also  founded  on  instincts,  and  have 
better  guides  to  their  own  humble  aims  than  the  sagacity  of 
their  leaders.  They  have  nothing  perverse  in  their  origin,  but 


POLITICS  253 

rudely  mark  some  real  and  lasting  relation.  We  might  as 
wisely  reprove  the  east  wind,  or  the  frost,  as  a  political  party, 
whose  members,  for  the  most  p^rtTcould  give  no  account  of 
their  position,  butstand  for  the  defence  of  those  interests  in 
which  they  find  tnemselves.  Our  quarrel  with  them  begins 
when  they  quit  this  deep  natural  ground  at  the  bidding  of 
some  leader,  and,  obeying  personal  considerations  throw 
themselves  into  the  maintenance  and  defence  of  points  no 
wise  belonging  to  their  system.  A  party  is  perpetually 
corruptedj^y  personality.  Whilst  we  absolve  the  Association 
from  dishonesty,  we  cannot  extend  the  same  chanty  to  their 
leaders.  They  reap  the  rewards  of  the  docility  and  zeal  of 
the  masses,  which  they  direct.  Ordinarily,  our  parties  are 
parties-flOigUmstance,  and  not  of  principle;  as,  !h~e  plant 
ing  interest  in  conflict  with  the  commercial;  the  party  of 
capitalists,  and  that  of  operatives;  parties  which  are  identi 
cal  in  their  moral  character,  and  which  can  easily  change 
ground  with  each  other,  in  support  of  many  of  their 
measures.  Parties  of  principle,  as,  religious  sects,  or  the  party 
of  free-trade,  of  universal  suffrage,  of  abolition  of  slavery,  of 
abolition  of  capital  punishment,  degenerate  into  personalities 
or  would  inspire  enthusiasm.  The  vice  of  our  leading  parties 
in  this  country  (which  may  be  cited  as  a  fair  specimen  of  these 
societies  of  opinion)  is,  that  they  do  not  plant  themselves  on 
the  deep  and  necessary  grounds  to  which  they  are  respec 
tively  entitled,  but  lash  tnemselves  to  fury  in  the  carrying  of 
some  local  and  momentary  measure T  nowise  useful  to  the 
commonwealth.  OT~the  two  great  parties,  which,  at  this 
hour,  almost  share  the  nation  between  them,  I  should  say, 
tha.tj.nqftfra.fl  the  best^ause,  and  the  other  contains  the  best 
men.r  The  philosopher,  the  poet,  or  the  religious  man,  will, 
of  course,  wish  to  cast  his  vote  with  the  democrat,  for  free-  i 
trade,  for  wide  suffrage,  for  the  abolition  of  legal  cruelties 
in  the  penal  code,  and  for  facilitating  in  every  manner  the 
access  of  the  young  and  the  poor  to  the  sources  of  wealth  and  I 
power.  But  he  can  rarely  accept  the  persons  whom  the  / 
so-called  popular  party  propose  to  him  as  representatives  of/ 
these  liberalities.  They  have  not  at  heart  the  ends  which 
give  to  the  name  of  democracy  what  hope  and  virtue  are  in 


254  POLITICS 

it.  The  spirit  of  our  American  radicalism  is  destructive  and 
aimless;  it  is  not  loving;  it  has  no  ulterior  and  divine  ends; 
but  is  destructive  only  out  of  hatred  and  selfishness.  On  the 
other  side,  the  conservative  party,  composed  of  the  most 
moderate,  able,  and  cultivated  part  of  the  population,  is 
timid,  and  merely  defensive  of  property.  It  vindicates  no 
right,  it  aspires  to  no  real  good,  it  brands  no  crime,  it  pro 
poses  no  generous  policy,  it  does  not  build,  nor  write,  nor 
cherish  the  arts,  nor  foster  religion,  nor  establish  schools,  nor 
encourage  science,  nor  emancipate  the  slave,  nor  befriend 
the  poor,  or  the  Indian,  or  the  immigrant.  From  neither 
party,  when  in  power,  has  the  world  any  benefit  to  expect  in 
science,  art,  or  humanity,~at  all  commensurate  with  the  re 
sources  ol  the  nation . 
I  do  npfToLthese  defects  despair  of  our  republic.  vWe  are 


not  at  the  mercy  of  any  waves  of  chance.  In  the  strife  of 
ferocious  parties,  human  nature  always  finds  itself  cher 
ished,  as  the  children  of  the  convicts  at  Botany  Bay  are 
found  to  have  as  healthy  a  moral  sentiment  as  other  children. 
Citizens  of  feudal  states  are  alarmed  at  our  democratic  in 
stitutions  lapsing  into  anarchy;  and  the  older  and  more 
cautious  among  ourselves  are  learning  from  Europeans  to 
look  with  some  terror  at  our  turbulent  freedom.  It  is  said, 
that  in  our  license  of  construing  the  Constitution,  and  in  the 
despotism  of  public  opinion,  we  have  no  anchor;  and  one 
foreign  observer  thinks  he  has  found  the  safeguard  in  the 
sanctity  of  Marriage  among  us;  and  another  thinks  he  has 
found  it  in  our  Calvinism.  Fisher  Ames  expressed  the  pop 
ular  security  more  wisely,  when  he  compared  a  monarchy 
and  a  republic,  saying,  "that  a  monarchy  is  a  merchantman, 
which  sails  well,  but  will  sometimes  strike  on  a  rock,  and  go 
to  the  bottom;  whilst  a  republic  is  a  raft,  which  would  never 
sink,  but  then  your  feet  are  always  in  water."  No  forms 
can  have  any  dangerous  importance,  whilst  we  are  be 
friended  by  the  laws  of  things.  It  makes  no  difference  how 
many  tons  weight  of  atmosphere  presses  on  our  heads,  so 
long  as  the  same  pressure  resists  it  within  the  lungs.  Aug 
ment  the  mass  a  thousandfold,  it  cannot  begin  to  crush  us, 
as  long  as  reaction  is  equal  to  action.  The  fact  of  two 


POLITICS  255 

poles,  of  two  forces,  centripetal  and  centrifugal,  is  universal, 
and  each  force,  by  its  own  activity,  develops  the  other.  Wild 
liberty  develops  irorL^Qiiscienee.  Want  of  liberty,  by 
strengthening  law  and 


"Lynch-law"  prevails  only  where  there  is  greater  hardihood 
and  self-subsistency  in  the  leaders.  A  mob  cannot  be  a 
permanency:  everybody's  interest  requires  that  it  should 
not  exist,  and  only  justice  satisfies  all. 

WTe  mustjtrust  infinitely  to  the  beneficent  necessity  which 
shinesjthrough  all  laws.  Human  nature  expresses  itself  in 
them  as  characteristically  as  in  statues,  or  songs,  or  rail 
roads,  and  an  abstract  of  the  codes  of  nations  would  be  a 
transcript  of  the  common  conscience.  Govenmiejils-Jaaye 
their  origin,  in  the  moral  identit^of  men.  Reason  for  one  is 
seen  to  be'Teason"  To?  "anbtEer",  and  for  every  other.  There 
is  a  middle  measure  which  satisfies  all  parties,  be  they  never 
so  many,  or  so  resolute  for  their  own.  Every  man  finds  a 
sanction  for  his  simplest  claims  and  deeds  in  decisions  of  his 
own  mind,  which  he  calls  truth  and  holiness.  In  these  de 
cisions  all  the  citizens  find  a  perfect  agreement,  and  only 
in  these;  not  in  what  is  good  to  eat,  good  to  wear,  good  use 
of  time,  or  what  amount  of  land,  or  of  public  aid,  each  is  en 
titled  to  claim.  This  truth  and  justice  men  presently 
endeavor  to  make  application  of,  to  the  measuring  of  land, 
the  apportionment  of  service,  the  protection  of  life  and  prop 
erty.  Their  first  endeavors,  no  doubt,  are  very  awkward. 
Yet  absolute  right  is  the  first  governor;  or,  every  govern 
ment  is  an  impure  theocracy.  The  idea,  after  which  each 
community  is  aiming  to  make  and  mend  its  law,  is  the  will 
of  the  wise  man.  The  wise  man,  it  cannot  find  in  nature,  and 
it  makes  awkward  but  earnest  efforts  to  secure  his  govern 
ment  by  contrivance;  as,  by  causing  the  entire  people  to 
give  their  voices  on  every  measure;  or,  by  a  double  choice 
to  get  the  representation  of  the  whole;  or,  by  a  selection  of 
the  best  citizens;  or,  to  secure  the  advantages  of  efficiency 
and  internal  peace,  by  confiding  the  government  to  one,  who 
may  himself  select  his  agents.  All  forms  of  government 
symbolize  an  immortal  government,  common  to  all  dynasties 
and  independent  of  numbers,  perfect  where  two  men  exist, 


256  POLITICS 

perfect  where  there  is  only  one  man. 

Every  man's  nature  is  a  sufficient  advertisement  to  him 
of  the  character  of  his  fellows.  My  right  and  my  wrong,  is 
their  right  and  their  wrong.  Whilst  I  do  what  is  fit  for  me,  and* 
abstain  from  what  is  unfit,  my  neighbor  and  I  shall  often 
agree  in  our  means,  and  work  together  for  a  time  to  one  end. 
But  whenever  I  find  my  dominion  over  myself  not  sufficient 
for  me,  and  undertake  the  direction  of  him  also,  I  overstep 
the  truth,  and  come  into  false  relations  to  him.  I  may  have 
so  much  more  skill  or  strength  than  he,  that  he  cannot  ex 
press  adequately  his  sense  of  wrong,  but  it  is  a  lie,  and  hurts 
like  a  lie  both  him  and  me.  Love  and  nature  cannot  main 
tain  the  assumption:  it  must  be  executed  by  a  practical  lie, 
namely,  by  force.  This  undertaking  for  another,  is  the 
blunder  which  stands  in  colossal  ugliness  in  the  govern 
ments  of  the  \vorld.  It  is  the  same  thing  in  numbers,  as 
in  a  pair,  only  not  quite  so  intelligible.  I  can  see  well 
enough  a  great  difference  between  my  setting  myself  down  to 
a  self-control,  and  my  going  to  make  somebody  else  act 
after  my  views;  but  when  a  quarter  of  the  human  race 
assume  to  tell  me  what  I  must  do,  I  may  be  too  much  dis 
turbed  by  the  circumstances  to  see  so  clearly  the  absurdity 
of  their  command.  Therefore,  all  public  ends  look  vague 
and  quixotic  beside  private  ones.  For,  any  laws  but  those 
which  men  make  for  themselves,  jjrja-Ja^jefoa^e.  IF  I  put 
"myself  in  place  of  my  child,  and  we  stand  in  one  thought, 
and  see  what  things  are  thus  or  thus,  that  perception  is  law 
for  him  and  me.  We  are  both  there,  both  act.  But  if, 
without  carrying  him  into  the  thought,  I  look  over  into  his 
plot,  and,  guessing  how  it  is  with  him,  ordain  this  or  that, 
he  will  never  obey  me.  This  is  the  history  of  governments 
rlnps  -something;  which  is  to  bind  another.  A 


man  who  cannot  be  acquainted  with  me,  taxes  me;  looking 
from  afar  at  me,  ordains  that  a  part  of  my  labor  shall  go  to 
this  or  that  whimsical  end,  not  as  I,  but  as  he  happens  to 
fancy.  Behold  the  consequence.  Of  all  debts,  men  are 
least  willing  to  pay  the  taxes.  What  a  satire  is  this  on  gov 
ernment!  Everywhere  they  think  they  get  their  money's 
worth,  except  for  these. 


POLITICS  257 

Hence,  the  less  government  we  have,  the  Detter, — 
the  fewer  laws,  and  the  less  confided  power.  The  antl 
dote  to  this  abuse  oOojan^Lgai^ernment,  is,  the  influence 
of  private  character,  the  growth  of  the  individual;  the  ap 
pearance  of  the^pllncijJlil  lu  uupersede  the  proxy;  the  ap 
pearance  of  the  wise  man,  of  whom  the  existing  government, 
is,  it  must  be  owned,  but  a  shabby  imitation.  That  which 
all  things  tend  to  educe,  which  freedom,  cultivation,  inter 
course,  revolutions,  go  to  form  and  deliver,  is  character: 
that  is  the  end  of  nature,  to  reach  unto  this  coronation  of 
her  king.  To  educate  the  wisp  ma.r>J  thp  Sta.^  pvist.s;  and 
with  the  appearance  of  the  wise  man,  the  State  expires.  The 
appearance  of  character  makes  the  State  unnecessary.  The 
wise  man  is  the  State.  He  needs  no  army,  fort,  or  navy, — 
he  loves  men  too  well;  no  bribe,  or  feast,  or  palace,  to  draw 
friends  to  him:  no  vantage  ground,  no  favorable  circum 
stance.  He  needs  no  library,  for  he  has  not  done  thinking; 
no  church,  for  he  is  a  prophet;  no  statute  book,  for  he  has 
the  lawgiver ;  no  money,  for  he  is  value ;  no  road,  for  he  is  at 
home  where  he  is;  no  experience,  for  the  life  of  the  creator 
shoots  through  him,  and  looks  from  his  eyes.  He  has  no 
personal  friends,  for  he  who  has  the  spell  to  draw  the  prayer 
and  piety  of  all  men  unto  him,  needs  not  husband  and  ed 
ucate  a  few,  to  share  with  him  a  select  and  poetic 
life.  His  relation  to  men  is  angelic;  his  memory  is  myrrh  to 
them;  his  presence,  frankincense  and  flowers. 

We  think  our  civilization  near  its  meridian,  but  we  are  yet 
only  at  the  cock-crowing  and  the  morning  star.  In  our 
barbarous  society  the  influence  of  character  is  in  its  in 
fancy,  As  a  political  power,  as  the  rightful  lord  who  is 
to  tumble  all  rulers  from  their  chairs,  its  presence  is  hardly 
yet  suspected.  Malthus  and  Ricardo  quite  omit  it;  the 
Annual  Register  is  silent;  in  the  Conversations'  Lexicon,  it 
is  not  set  down;  the  President's  Message,  the  Queen's  Speech, 
have  not  mentioned  it;  and  yet  it  is  never  nothing.  Every 
thought  which  genius  and  piety  throw  into  the  world,  alters 
the  world.  The  gladiators  in  the  lists  of  power  feel,  through 
all  their  frocks  of  force  and  simulation,  the  presence  of  worth. 
I  think  the  very  strife  of  trade  and  ambition  are  confession 


258  POLITICS 

of  this  divinity;  and  successes  in  those  fields  are  the  poor 
amends,  the  fig-leaf  with  which  the  shamed  soul  attempts 
to  hide  its  nakedness.  I  find  the  like  unwilling  homage  in 
all  quarters.  It  is  because  we  know  how  much  is  due  from 
us,  that  we  are  impatient  to  show  some  petty  talent  as  a 
substitute  for  worth.  We  are  haunted  by  a  conscience  of 
this  right  to  grandeur  of  character,  and  are  false  to  it. 
But  each  of  us  has  some  talent,  can  do  somewhat  useful,  or 
graceful,  or  formidable,  or  amusing,  or  lucrative.  That  we 
do,  as  an  apology  to  others  and  to  ourselves,  for  not  reaching 
the  mark  of  a  good  and  equal  life.  But  it  does  not  satisfy 
us,  whilst  we  thrust  it  on  the  notice  of  our  companions.  It 
may  throw  dust  in  their  eyes,  but  does  not  smooth  our  own 
brow,  or  give  us  the  tranquillity  of  the  strong  when  we 
walk  abroad.  We  do  penance  as  we  go.  Our  talent  is  a 
sort  of  expiation,  and  we  are  constrained  to  reflect  on  our 
splendid  moment,  with  a  certain  humiliation,  as  somewhat 
too  fine,  and  not  as  one  act  of  many  acts,  a  fair  expression 
of  our  permanent  energy.  Most  persons  of  ability  meet  in 
society  with  a  kind  of  tacit  appeal.  Each  seems  to  say, 
"I  am  not  all  here."  Senators  and  presidents  have  climbed 
so  high  with  pain  enough,  not  because  they  think  the  place 
specially  agreeable,  but  as  an  apology  for  real  worth,  and  to 
vindicate  their  manhod  in  our  eyes.  This  conspicuous  chair 
is  their  compensation  to  themselves  for  being  of  a  poor,  cold, 
hard  nature.  They  must  do  what  they  can.  Like  one  class 
of  forest  animals,  they  have  nothing  but  a  prehensile  tail: 
climb  they  must,  or  crawl.  If  a  man  found  himself  so  rich- 
natured  that  he  could  enter  into  strict  relations  with  the 
best  persons,  and  make  life  serene  around  him  by  the  dig 
nity  and  sweetness  of  his  behavior,  could  he  afford  to  circum 
vent  the  favor  of  the  caucus  and  the  press,  and  covert  rela 
tions  so  hollow  and  pompous,  as  those  of  a  politician? 
Surely  nobody  would  be  a  charlatan,  who  could  afford  to  be 
sincere. 

The  tendencies  of  the  times  favor  the  idea  of  self-govern 
ment,  and  ieave^thelndividual.  for  all  code,  to  the  reward? 
and  penalti££_OjLhis_own  constitution,  which  work  with  more 
energy  than  we  believe,  whilst  we  depend  on  artificial  re- 


POLITICS  259 

straints.  The  movement  in  this  direction  has  been  very 
marked  in  modern  history.  Much  has  been  blind  and  dis 
creditable,  but  the  nature  of  the  revolution  is  not  affected  by 
the  vices  of  the  revolters;  for  this  is  a  purely  moral  force. 
It  was  never  adopted  by  any  party  in  history,  neither  can 
be.  It  separates  the  individual  from  all  party,  and  unites 
him,  at  the  same  time,  to  the  race.  It  promises  a  recogni 
tion  of  higher  rights  than  those  of  personal  freedom,  or  the 
security  of  property.  A  man  has  a  rightto  be  employed,  to 
be  trusted,  to  be  loved^cTBe  revered!  The  |wiwerjTf  ]OVP; 
as  the"basis"  of  "a  state,  has  never  been  tried.  We  must  not 
imagine  that  all  things  are  lapsing  into  confusion,  if  every 
tender  protestant  be  not  compelled  to  bear  his  part  in  certain 
social  conventions :  nor  doubt  that  roads  can  be  built,  letters 
carried,  and  the  fruit  of  labor  secured,  when  the  govern 
ment  of  force  is  at  an  end.  Are  our  methods  now  so  excel 
lent  that  all  competition  is  hopeless  ?  Could  not  a  nation  of 
friends  even  devise  better  ways?  On  the  other  hand,  let 
not  the  most  conservative  and  timid  fear  anything  from  a 
premature  surrender  of  the  bayonet,  and  the  system  of  force. 
Fo£,  according  to  the  order  of  nature,  which  is  quite  superior 
to  our  will,  it  stands  thus :  there  will  always  be  a  government 
of  force,  where  men  are  selfish;  and  when  they  are  pure 
enough  to  abjure  the  code  of  force,  they  will  be  wise  enough 
to  see  how  these  public  ends  of  the  post-office,  of  the  high 
way,  of  commerce,  and  the  exchange  of  property,  of  mu 
seums  and  libraries,  of  institutions  of  art  and  science,  can  be 
answered. 

We  live  in  a  very  low  state  of  the  world,  and  pay  unwill 
ing  tribute  to  crnvprnrnpnts Jrmndpr^rm  IWp       There  is  not, 

among  the  most  religious  and  instructed  men  of  the  most 
religious  and  civil  nations,  a  reliance  on  the  moral  sentiment, 
and  a  sufficient  belief  in  the  unity  of  things  to  persuade  them 
that  society  can  be  maintained  without  artificial  restraints, 
as  well  as  the  solar  system;  or  that  the  private  citizen  might 
be  reasonable,  and  a  good  neighbor,  without  the  hint  of  a  jail 
or  a  confiscation.  What  is  strange  too,  there  never  was  in 
any  man  sufficient  faith  in  the  power  of  rectitude,  to  inspire 
him  with  the  broad  design  of  renovating  the  State  on  the 


260  POLITICS 

principle  of  right  and  love.  All  those  who  have  pretended 
this  design,  have  been  partial  reformers,  and  have  admitted 
in  some  manner  the  supremacy  of  the  bad  State.  I  do  not  call 
to  mind  a  single  human  being  who  has  steadily  denied  the 
authority  of  the  laws,  on  the  simple  ground  of  his  own  moral 
nature.  Such  designs,  full  of  genius  and  full  of  fate  as  they 
are,  are  not  entertained  except  avowedly  as  air-pictures.  If 
the  individual  who  exhibits  them,  dare  to  think  them  prac 
ticable,  he  disgusts  scholars  and  churchmen;  and  men  of 
talent,  and  women  of  superior  sentiments,  cannot  hide  their 
contempt.  Not  the  less  does  nature  continue  to  fill  the  heart 
of  youth  with  suggestions  of  this  enthusiasm,  and  there  are 
now  men, — if  indeed  I  can  speak  in  the  plural  Jiflmber, — 
more  exactly,  I  will  say,  I  have  just  been  conversing  with 
one  man,  to  whom  no  weight  of  adverse  experience  will 
make  it  for  a  moment  appear  impossible,  that  thousands  of 
human  beings  might  exercise  towards  each  other  the  grand 
est  and  simplest  sentiments,  as  well  as  a  knot  of  friends,  or 
a  pair  of  lovers. 


XIII 
ART 

BECAUSE  the  soul  is  progressive,  it  never  quite  repeats 
itself,  but  in  every  act  attempts  the  production  of  a  new 
and  fairer  whole.  This  appears  in  works  both  of  the  useful 
and  the  fine  arts,  if  we  employ  the  popular  distinction  of 
works  according  to  their  aim,  either  at  use  or  beauty.  Thus 
in  our  fine  arts,  not  imitation,  but  creation  is  the  aim.  In 
landscapes, "tEe" painter  should  give  the  suggestion  oTa  fairer 
creation  than  we  know.  The  details,  the  prose  of  nature,  he 
should  omit,  and  give  us  only  the  spirit  and  splendor.  He 
should  know  that  the  landscape  has  beauty  for  his  eye, 
because  it  expresses  a  thought  which  is  to  him  good:  and 
this,  because  the  same  power  which  sees  through  his  eyes  is 
seen  in  that  spectacle;  and  he  will  come  to  value  the  ex 
pression  of  nature,  and  not  nature  itself,  and  so  exalt  in  his 
copy  the  features  that  please  him.  He  will  give  the  gloom 
of  gloorn,  and  the  sunshine  of  sunshine.  In  a  portrait  he 
must  inscribe  the  character,  and  not  the  features,  and  must 
esteem  the  man  who  sits  to  him  as  himself  only  an  imperfect 
picture  or  likeness  of  the  aspiring  original  within. 

What  is  that  abridgment  and  selection  we  observe  in  all 
spiritual  activity,  but  itself  the  creative  impulse?  for  it  is 
the  inlet  of  that  higher  illumination  which  teaches  to  convey 
a  larger  sense  by  simpler  symbols.  What  is  a  man  but 
nature's  finer  success  in  self-explication  ?  What  is  a  man  but 
a  finer  and  compacter  landscape  than  the  horizon  figures, — 
nature's  eclecticism?  and  what  is  his  speech,  his  love  of 
painting,  love  of  nature,  but  a  still  finer  success, — all  the 
weary  miles  and  tons  of  space  and  bulk  left  out,  and  the 
spirit  or  moral  of  it  contracted  into  a  musical  word,  or 
the  most  cunning  stroke  of  the  pencil? 

261 


262  ART 

But  the  artist  must  employ  the  symbols  in  use  in  his  day 
and  nation  to  convey  his  enlarged  sense  to  his  fellow-men. 
Thus  the  new  in  art  is  always  formed  out  of  the  old.  The 
Genius  of  the  Hour  always  sets  his  ineffaceable  seal  on  the 
work,  and  gives  it  an  inexpressible  charm  for  the  imagination. 
As_jfaj  a.a  tVip  spiritual  character  of  the  period  overpowers 
the  artist  amj,  finds  expression  in  his  work,  so  far  it  will 
always  rej^ajrij^ertain  grandeur,  and  will  represent  to  future 
beholdersthe  Unknown,  the  Inevitable,  the  Divine.  No  man 
can  quite  exclude  this  element  of  Necessity  from  his  labor. 
No  man  can  quite  emancipate  himself  from  his  age  and 
country,  or  produce  a  model  in  which  the  education,  the 
religion,  the  politics,  usages,  and  arts  of  his  times  shall  have 
rio__shaie_.  Though  he  were  never  so  original,  never  so 
wilful  and  fantastic,  he  cannot  wipe  out  of  his  work  every 
trace  of  the  thoughts  amidst  which  it  grew.  The  very  avoid 
ance  betrays  the  usage  he  avoids.  Above  his  will,  and  out 
of  his  sight,  he  'is-  necessitated,  by  the  air  he  breathes,  and 
the  idea  on  which  he  and  his  contemporaries  live  and  toil,  to 
share  the  manner  of  his  times,  without  knowing  what  that 
manner  is.  Now  that  which  is  inevitable  in  the  work  has 
a  higher  charm  than  individual  talent  can  ever  give,  in 
asmuch  as  the;  artist's  pen  or  chisel  seems  to  have  been  held 
I  and  guided  by  a  gigantic  hand  to  inscribe  a  line  in  the  his 
tory  of  the  human  race.  This  circumstance  gives  a  value  to 
the  Egyptian  hieroglyphics,  to  the  Indian,  Chinese,  and 
Mexican  idols,  however  gross  and  shapeless.  They  denote 
the  height  of  the  human  soul  in  that  hour,  and  were  not 
fantastic,  but  sprung  from  a  necessity  as  deep  as  the  world. 
Shall  I  now  add,  that  the  whole  extant  product  of  the  plas 
tic  arts  has  herein  its  highest  value  as  history;  as  a  stroke 
drawn  in  the  portrait  of  that  fate,  perfect  and  beautiful, 
according  to  whose  ordinations  all  beings  advance  to  their 
beatitude  ? 

Thus,  historically  viewed,  it  has  been  the  office  of  art  to 
educate  the  perception  of  beauty.  We  are  immersed  in 
beauty,  but  our  eyes  have  no  clear  vision.  It  needs,  by  the 
exhibition  of  single  traits,  to  assist  and  lead  the  dormant 
taste.  We  carve  and  paint,  or  we  behold  what  is  carved 


ART  263 

and  painted,  as  students  of  the  mystery  of  Form.  The  vir- 
tue  of  art  lies  in  detachment,  in  sequestering  one  objecTtfOm 
the  embarrassing  variety.  Until  one  thing  comes  out  from 
the  connection"  of  things,  there  can  be  enjoyment,  con 
templation,  but  no  thought.  Our  happiness  and  unhappi- 
ness  are  unproductive.  The  infant  lies  in  a  pleasing  trance; 
but  his  individual  character  and  his  practical  power  depend 
on  his  daily  progress  in  the  separation  of  things,  and  dealing 
with  one  at  a  time.  Love  and  all  the  passions  concentrate 
all  existence  around  a  single  form.  It  is  the  habit  of  certain 
minds  to  give  an  all-excluding  fulness  to  the  object,  the 
thought,  the  word,  they  alight  upon,  and  to  make  that  for 
the  time  the  deputy  of  the  world.  These  are  the  artists,  the 
orators,  the  leaders  of  society.  The  power  to  dejach,  and 
to  magnify  bv .  detaching,  is  the  essence  of  rhetoric  in  the 
hands  ofthe^  orator  ,and  the  poet.  This  rhetoric,  or  power 
to  fix  the^momentary  eminency  of  an  object, —  so  remarkable 
in  Burke,  in  Byron,  in  Carlyle, — the  painter  and  sculptor 
exhibit  in  color  and  in  stone.  The  power  depends  on  the  depth 
of  the  artist's  insight  of  that  object  he  contemplates.  For 
every  object  _bag  its_ roots  in  central  n^ture1__andLrnay  j}f 
coarse  be  so_  exhibited  to  us  as  to  represent  the  world. 
Therefore  each  work  of  genius  is  the  tyrant  of  the  hour, 
and  concentrates  attention  on  itself.  For  the  time,  it  is  the 
only  thing  worth  naming,  to  do  that, — be  it  a  sonnet,  an 
opera,  a  landscape,  a  statue,  an  oration,  the  plan  of  a  temple, 
of  a  campaign,  or  of  a  voyage  of  discovery.  Presently  we 
pass  to  some  other  object,  which  rounds  itself  into  a  whole, 
as  did  the  first ;  for  example,  a  well-laid  garden, — and  noth 
ing  seems  worth  doing  but  the  laying  out  of  gardens.  I 
should  think  fire  the  best  thing  in  the  world,  if  I  were  not 
acquainted  with  air,  and  water,  and  earth.  For  it  is  the 
right  and  property  of  all  natural  objects,  of  all  genuine  tal 
ents,  of  all  native  properties  whatsoever,  to  be  for  their 
moment  the  top  of  the  world.  A  squirrel  leaping  from 
bough  to  bough,  and  making  the  wood  but  one  wide  tree 
for  his  pleasure,  fills  the  eye  not  less  than  a  lion,  is  beautiful, 
self-sufficing,  and  stands  then  and  there  for  nature.  A 
good  ballad  draws  my  ear  and  heart  whilst  I  listen,  as  much 


264  ART 

as  an  epic  has  done  before.  A  dog  drawn  by  a  master,  or  a 
^Jitter  of  pigSj^jsatisfies,  and  is  a*  reality  not  less"  than  the 
frescoes  of  Angela  From  this  succession  of  excellent  ob 
jects  learn  we  at  last  the  immensity  of  the  world,  the  opu 
lence  of  human  nature,  which  can  run  out  to  infinitude  in 
any  direction.  But  I  also  learn  that  what  astonished  and 
fascinated  me  in  the  first  work  astonished  me  in  the  second 
work  also, — thal-£xc,ellence  of  all  things  is  one. 

The  office  oFpainting~~arid  sculpture  seems  to  be  merely 
initial.  The  best  pictures  can  easily  tell  us  their  last  secret. 
The  best  pictures  are  rude  draughts  of  a  few  of  the  mirac 
ulous  dots  and  lines  and  dyes  which  make  up  the  ever- 
changing  "landscape  with  figures"  amidst  which  we  dwell. 
Painting  seems  to  be  to  the  eye  what  dancing  is  to  the  limbs. 
When  that  has  educated  the  frame  to  self-possession,  to 
nimbleness,  to  grace,  the  steps  of  the  dancing-master  are 
better  forgotten:  so  painting  teaches  me  the  splendor  of 
color  and  the  expression  of  form,  and  as  I  see  many  pictures 
and  higher  genius  in  the  art,  I  see  the  boundless  opulence  of 
the  pencil,  the  indifferency  in  which  the  artist  stands  free  to 
choose  out  of  the  possible  forms.  If  he  can  draw  every 
thing,  why  draw  anything?  and  then  is  my  eye  opened  to 
the  eternal  picture  which  nature  paints  in  the  street,  with 
moving  men  and  children,  beggars  and  fine  ladies,  draped 
in  red,  and  green,  and  blue,  and  grey;  long-haired,  grizzled, 
white-faced,  black-faced,  wrinkled,  giant,  dwarf,  expanded, 
elfish, — capped  and  based  by  heaven,  earth,  and  sea. 

A  gallery  of  sculpture  teaches  more  austerely  the  same 
lesson.  As  picture  teaches  the  coloring,  so  sculpture  the 
anatomy  of  form.  When  I  have  seen  fine  statues,  and  after 
wards  enter  a  public  assembly,  I  understand  well  what  he 
meant  who  said,  "When  I  have  been  reading  Homer,  all  men 
look  like  giants."  I  too  see  that  painting  and  sculpture 
are  gymnastics  of  the  eye,  its  training  to  the  niceties  and 
curiosities  of  its  function.  There  is  no  statue  like  this 
living  man,  with  his  infinite  advantage  over  all  ideal  sculp 
ture,  of  perpetual  variety.  What  a  gallery  of  art  have  I 
here!  No  mannerist  made  these  varied  groups  and  diverse 
original  single  figures.  Here  is  the  artist  himself  improvising, 


ART  265 

grim  and  glad,  at  his  block.  Now  one  thought  strikes  him, 
now  another;  and  with  each  moment  he  alters  the  whole 
air,  attitude,  and  expression  of  his  clay.  Away  with  your 
nonsense  of  oil  and  easels,  of  marble  and  chisels:  except  to 
open  your  eyes  to  the  witchcraft  of  eternal  art,  they  are 
hypocritical  rubbish. 

The  reference  of  all  production  at  last  to  an  Aboriginal  I 
Power  explains  the  traits  common  to  all  works  of  the  highest  1 
art, — that  they  are  universally  intelligible,  that  they  restore 
to  us  the  simplest  states  of  mind,  and  are  religious.  Since  I 
what  skill  is  therein  shown  is  the  reappearance  of  the  orig 
inal  soul,  a  jet  of  pure  light,  it  should  produce  a  similar 
impression  to  that  made  by  natural  objects.  In  happy 
hours  nature  appears  to  us  one  with  art;  art  perfected, — 
the  work  of  genius.  And  the  individual  in  whom  simple 
tastes,  and  susceptibility  to  all  the  great  human  influences, 
overpower  the  accidents  of  a  local  and  special  culture,  is 
the  best  critic  of  art.  Though  we  travel  the  workjjjver  to 
find  the  beautiful,  we  must  carry  it_witti  us,  or  we  find  it 'not. 
The"besffof  beauty  is  a  finer  charm  than  skill  in  surfaces,  in 
outlines,  or  rules  of  art  can  ever  teach,  namely,  a  radiation,  « 
from  the  work  of  art,  of  human  character, — a  wonderful 
expression,  through  stone  or  canvas  or  musical  sound,  of  the 
deepest  and  simplest  attributes  of  our  nature,  and  therefore 
most  intelligible  at  last  to  those  souls  which  have  these  attri 
butes.  In  the  sculptures  of  the  Greeks,  in  the  masonry  of 
the  Romans,  and  in  the  pictures  of  the  Tuscan  and  Venetian 
masters,  the  highest  charm  is  the  universal  language  they 
speak.  A  confession  of  moral  nature,  of  purity,  love,  and 
hope,  breathes  from  them  all.  That  which  we  carry  to  them, 
the  same  we  bring  back  more  fairly  illustrated  in  the  mem 
ory.  The  traveller  who  visits  the  Vatican,  and  passes  from 
chamber  to  chamber  through  galleries  of  statues,  vases,  sar 
cophagi,  and  candelabra,  through  all  forms  of  beauty,  cut 
in  the  richest  materials,  is  in  danger  of  forgetting  the  sim 
plicity  of  the  principles  out  of  which  they  all  sprung,  and 
that  they  had  their  origin  from  thoughts  and  laws  in  his 
own  breast.  He  studies  the  technical  rules  on  these  wonder 
ful  remains,  but  forgets  that  these  works  were  not  always 
thus  constellated;  that  they  are  the  contributions  of  many 


266  ART 

ages  and  many  countries;  that  each  came  out  of  the  solitary 
workshop  of  one  artist,  who  toiled  perhaps  in  ignorance  of 
the  existence  of  other  sculpture,  created  his  work  without 
other  model  save  life,  household  life,  and  the  sweet  and 
smart  of  personal  relations,  of  beating  hearts,  and  meeting 
eyes,  of  poverty,  and  necessity,  and  hope,  and  fear.  These 
were  his  inspirations,  and  these  are  the  effects  he  carries  home 
to  your  heart  and  mind.  In  proportion  to  his  force,  the 
artist  will  find  in  his  work  an  outlet  for  his  proper  character. 
He  must  not  be  in  any  manner  pinched  or  hindered  by  his 
material,  but  through  his  necessity  of  imparting  himself,  the 
adamant  will  be  wax  in  his  hands,  and  will  allow  an  adequate 
communication  of  himself  in  his  full  stature  and  proportion. 
Not  a  conventional  nature  and  culture  need  he  cumber  him 
self  with,  nor  ask  what  is  the  mode  in  Rome  or  in  Paris;  but 
that  house,  and  weather,  and  manner  of  living,  which 
poverty  and  the  fate  of  birth  have  made  at  once  so  odious 
and  so  dear,  in  the  gray  unpainted  wood  cabin  on  the  corner 
of  a  New  Hampshire  farm,  or  in  the  log-hut  of  the  back 
woods,  or  in  the  narrow  lodging  where  he  has  endured  the 
constraints  and  seeming  of  a  city  poverty, — will  serve  as 
well  as  any  other  condition  as  the  symbol  of  a  thought  which 
pours  itself  indifferently  through  all. 

I  remember,  when  in  my  younger  days  I  had  heard  of  the 
wonders  of  Italian  painting,  I  fancied  the  great  pictures 
would  be  great  strangers;  some  surprising  combination  of 
color  and  form;  a  foreign  wonder,  barbaric  pearl  and  gold, 
like  the  spontoons  and  standards  of  the  militia,  which  play 
such  pranks  in  the  eyes  and  imaginations  of  school-boys.  I 
was  to  see  and  acquire  I  knew  not  what.  When  I  came  at 
last  to  Rome,  and  saw  with  eyes  the  pictures,  I  found  that 
genius  left  to  novices  the  gay  and  fantastic  and  ostentatious, 
and  itself  pierced  directly  to  the  simple  and  true;  that  it 
was  familiar  and  sincere;  that  it  was  the  old,  eternal  fact  I 
had  met  already  in  so  many  forms;  unto  which  I  lived;  that 
it  was  the  plain  you  and  me  I  knew  so  well, — had  left  at 
home  in  so  many  conversations.  I  had  had  the  same  ex 
perience  already  in  a  church  at  Naples.  There  I  saw  that 
nothing  was  changed  with  me  but  the  place,  and  said  to 


ART  267 

myself, — "Thou  foolish  child,  hast  thou  come  out  hither,  over 
four  thousand  miles  of  salt  water,  to  find  that  which  was 
perfect  to  thee  there  at  home?"  That  fact  I  saw  again  in 
the  Accademia  at  Naples,  in  the  chambers  of  sculpture;  and 
yet  again  when  I  came  to  Rome,  and  to  the  paintings  of 
Raphael,  Angelo,  Sacchi,  Titian,  and  Leonardo  da  Vinci. 
"What,  old  mole!  workest  thou  in  the  earth  so  fast?"  It 
had  travelled  by  my  side :  that  which  I  fancied  I  had  left  in 
Boston  was  here  in  the  Vatican,  and  again  at  Milan,  and  at 
Paris,  and  made  all  travelling  ridiculous  as  a  treadmill.  I 
now  require  this  of  all  pictures,  -that -they  domesticate  me, 
riot  that  they  dazzle  me. Pictures  must  not  "be  too  pictur- 
ogf|TTS  ATnfhinnr  qatnjjpjipQ  mpn  SQ  much  as  common  sense 
and  plain  ..dealing.  All  ggeat  actionsjiave  been  simple,  and 
all  grea^j^icjaixes^are. 

The  Transfiguration,  by  Raphael,  is  an  eminent  example 
of  this  peculiar  merit.  A  calm,  benignant  beauty  shines  over 
all  this  picture,  and  goes  directly  to  the  heart.  It  seems 
almost  to  call  you  by  name.  The  sweet  and  sublime  face 
of  Jesus  is  beyond  praise,  yet  how  it  disappoints  all  florid 
expectations!  This  familiar,  simple,  home-speaking  coun 
tenance  is  as  if  one  should  meet  a  friend.  The  knowledge  of 
picture-dealers  has  its  value ;  but  listen  not  to  their  criticism 
when  your  heart  is  touched  by  genius.  It  was  not  painted 
for  them, —  it  was  painted  for  you;  for  such  as  had  eyes 
capable  of  being  touched  by  simplicity  and  lofty  emotions. 

Yet  when  we  have  said  all  our  fine  things  about  the  arts, 
we  must  end  with  a  frank  confession,  that  the  arts,  as  we 
know  them,  are  but  initial.  Our  best  praise  is  given  to  what 
they  aimed  and  promised,  not  to  the  actual  result.  He  has 
conceived  meanly  of  the  resources  of  man  who  believes  that 
the  best  age  of  production  is  past.  The  real  value  of  the 
Iliadorthe  Transfiguration  is  as  signs  of  power;  billOWs  or 
ripples  tEey  are  01  the  great  stream  oi  tendency;  tokens  of 
the  everlasting  effort  to  produce,  which  even  in  its  worst 
estate  the  soul  betrays.  Art  has  not  yet  come  to  its  matu 
rity,  if  it  do  not  put  itself  abreast  with  the  most  potent  in 
fluences  of  the  world,  if  it  is  not  practical  and  moral,  if  it 
do  not  stand  in  connection  with  the  conscience,  if  it  do  not 


268  ART 

make  the  poor  and  uncultivated  feel  that  it  addresses  them 
with  a  voice  of  lofty  cheer.  There  is  higher  work  for  Art 
than  the  arts.  They  are  abortive  births  of  an  imperfect  or 
vitiated  instinct.  Art  is  the  need  to  create;  but  in  its  es 
sence,  immense  and  universal,  it  is  impatient  of  working  with 
lame  or  tied  hands,  and  of  making  cripples  and  monsters, 
such  as  all  pictures  and  statues  are.  Nothing  less  than  the 
creation  of  man  and  nature  is  its  end.  A  man  should  find 
in  it  an  outlet  for  his  whole  energy.  He  may  paint  and 
carve  only  as  long  as  he  can  do  that.  Art  should  exhilarate, 
and  throw  down  the  walls  of  circumstance  on  every  side, 
awakening  in  the  beholder  the  same  sense  of  universal  re 
lation  and  power  which  the  work  evinced  in  the  artist,  and 
its  highest  effect  is  to  make  new  artists. 

Already  History  is  old  enough  to  witness  the  old  age  and 
disappearance  of  particular  arts.  The  art  of  sculpture  is 
long  ago  perished  to  any  real  effect.  It  was  originally  an 
useful  art,  a  mode  of  writing,  a  savage's  record  of  gratitude 
or  devotion;  and  among  a  people  possessed  of  a  wonderful 
perception  or  form,  this  childish  carving  was  refined  to  the 
utmost  splendor  of  effect.  But  it  is  the  game  of  a  rude  and 
youthful  people,  and  not  the  manly  labor  of  a  wise  and 
spiritual  nation.  Under  an  oak-tree  loaded  with  leaves  and 
nuts,  under  a  sky  full  of  eternal  eyes,  I  stand  in  a  thorough 
fare;  but  in  the  works  of  our  plastic  arts,  and  especially  of 
sculpture,  creation  is  driven  into  a  corner.  I  cannot  hide 
from  myself  that  there  is  a  certain  appearance  of  paltriness, 
as  of  toys,  and  the  trumpery  of  a  theatre,  in  sculpture. 
Nature  transcends  all  our  moods  of  thought,  and  its  secret 
we  do  not  yet  find.  But  the  gallery  stands  at  the  mercy  of 
our  moods,  and  there  is  a  moment  when  it  becomes  frivolous. 
I  do  not  wonder  that  Newton,  with  an  attention  habitually 
engaged  on  the  earth  of  planets  and  suns,  should  have  won 
dered  what  the  Earl  of  Pembroke  found  to  admire  in  "stone 
dolls."  Sculpture  may  serve  to  teach  the  pupil  how  deep  is 
the  secret  of  form,  how  purely  the  spirit  can  translate  its 
meanings  into  that  eloquent  dialect.  But  the  statue  will 
look  cold  and  false  before  that  new  activity,  which  needs  to 
roll  through  all  things,  and  is  impatient  of  counterfeits  and 


ART  269 

things  not  alive.  Picture  and  sculpture  are  the  celebrations 
and  festivities  of  form.  But  trnp  ^rf,  "fc  n^Yfir  fixfiH;  _hnt 
always"  flowing.  The  sweetest  music  is  not  in  the  oratorio; 
but  in  the  human  voice  when  it  speaks  from  its  instant  life 
tones  of  tenderness,  truth,  or  courage.  The  oratorio  has 
already  lost  its  relation  to  the  morning,  to  the  sun  and  the 
earth,  but  that  persuading  voice  is  in  tune  with  these.  All 
works  of  art  should  not  be  detached,  but  extempore  per 
formances.  A  great  man  is  a  new  statue  in  every  attitude 
and  action.  A  beautiful  woman  is  a  picture  which  drives  all 
beholders  nobly  mad.  Life  may  be  lyric  or  epic,  as  well  as 
a  poem  or  a  romance. 

A  true  announcement  of  the  law  of  creation,  if  a  man  were 
found  worthy  to  declare  it,  would  carry  art  up  into  the  king 
dom  of  nature,  and  destroy  its  separate  and  contrasted  ex 
istence.  The  fountains  of  invention  and  beauty  in  modern 
society  are  all  but  dried  up.  A  popular  novel,  a  theatre,  or 
a  ball-room,  makes  us  feel  that  we  are  all  paupers  in  the 
alms-house  of  this  world,  without  dignity,  without  skill  or 
industry.  Art  is  as  poor  and  low.  The  old  tragic  Necessity, 
which  lowers  on  the  brows  even  of  the  Venuses  and  the 
Cupids  of  the  antique,  and  furnishes  the  sole  apology  for  the 
intrusion  of  such  anomalous  figures  into  nature, — namely,  that 
they  were  inevitable,  that  the  artist  was  drunk  with  a  passion 
for  form,  which  he  could  not  resist,  and  which  vented  itself 
in  these  fine  extravagances, — no  longer  dignifies  the  chisel  or 
the  pencil.  But  the  artist  and  the  connoisseur  now  seek  in 
art  the  exhibition  of  their  talent,  or  an  asylum  from  the  evils 
of  life.  Men  are  nn^^velj  pIppseH!  with  tbp  figure  they  make 
in  their  own  injagmatiori,  anjj.  they  flee  to  art,  and  convey 
their  better  sense  in  an  oratorio,  a  statue,  or  a  picture.  Art 
makes  the  same  ettort  which* "a  sensual  prosperity  makes, 
namely,  to  detach  the  beautiful  from  the  useful,  to  do  up  the 
work  as  unavoidable,  and  hating  it,  pass  on  to  enjoyment. 
These  solaces  and  compensations,  this  Hivjsion  of  beauty 
f romjiise^  the  laws  of  nature  do  not  permit.  As  soon  as 
"Beau^yjis  sought  not  from  religion  and  love,  but  for  pleasure, 
it  degrades  the  seeker.  High  beauty  is  no  longer  attainable 


270  ART 

by  him  in  canvas  or  in  stone,  in  sound  or  in  lyrical  construc 
tion;  an  effeminate,  prudent,  sickly  beauty,  which  is  not 
beauty,  is  all  that  can  be  formed ;  for  the  hand  can  never  ex 
ecute  anything  higher  than  the  character  can  inspire. 

The  art  that  thus  separates  is  itself  first  separated.  Art 
must  not  be  a  superficial  talent,  but  must  begin  farther  back 
in  man.  Now  men  do  not  see  nature  to  be  beautiful,  and 
they  go  to  make  a  statue  which  shall  be.  /They  abhor  men 
as  tasteless,  dull,  and  inconvertible,  and  console  themselves 
with  color-bags  and  blocks  of  marble.  Theyj-eject  life  as 
prosaic,  and  create  a  death  which  they  call  poetic.  They 
dtjspatch  tEe^day^s  weary  chores,  -and  fly  to  voluptuous  rev 
eries.  They^eat^  and  drink,  that  they  may  afterwards  ex 
ecute  the  ideal.  Thus  is  art, vilified;  the  name  conveys  to 
"the  mind  its^seconoary  and^bad  senses;  it  stands  in  the  im 
agination  as  somewhat  contrary  to  nature,  and  struck  with 
death  Trom  the  first.  Would,  it  not  be  better  to  begin  higher 
up,— ::Eo^serye_tli£. ideal  before  they  eat  and  drink;  to  serve 
the  ideal  in  eating  and  drinking,  in  drawing  the  breath,  and 
in  the  functions  of  life?  Beauty  must  come  back  to  the 
useful  artsTand  the  distinction  between  the  fine  and  the  use- 
f utints  l)e  forgotten.  If  history  were  truly  told,  if  life  were 
nobly~spent,  it  would  be  no  longer  easy  or  possible  to  dis 
tinguish  the  one  from  the  other.  In  naturg,  all  is  useful, 
all  is  beautiful.  It  is  therefore  beautiful  because  it  is  alive, 
moving,  reproductive;  it  is  therefore  useful  because  it  is 
symmetrical  and  fair.  Beauty  will  not  come  at  the  call  of 
a  legislature,  nor  will  it  repeat  in  England  or  America  its 
history  in  Greece.  It  will  come,  as  always,  unannounced, 
and  spring  up  between  the  feet  of  brave  and  earnest  men. 
It  is  in  vain  that  we  look  for  genius  to  reiterate  its  miracles 
in  the  old  arts;  it  is  its  instinct -to  find  beauty  and  holiness 
in  new  and  necessary  facts,  in  ^he  field  and  roadside,  in  the 
shop  and  mill.  Proceeding  from  a  religious  heart,  it  will 
raise  to  a  divine  use  the  railroad,  the  insurance-office,  the 
joint-stock  company,  our  law,^our  primary  assemblies,  our 
commerce,  the  galvanic  battery,  the  electric  jar,  the  prism, 
and  the  chemist's  retort,  in  which  we  seek  now  only  an  eco 
nomical  use.  Is  not  the  selfish  and  even  cruel  aspect  which 


ART  271 

belongs  to  our  great  mechanical  works,  to  mills,  railways, 
and  machinery,  the  effect  of  the  mercenary  impulses  which 
these  works  obey?^  When  its  errands  are  noble  and  ade 
quate,  a  steam-boat  bridging  the  Atlantic  between  Old  and 
New  England,  and  arriving  at  its  ports  with  the  punctuality 
of  a  planet, — is  a' step  of  man  into  harmony  with  nature. 
The  boat  at  St.  Petersburgh,  which  plies  along  the  Lena  by 
magnetism,  needs  little  to  make  it  sublime.  When  science 
is  learned  in  love,  and  its  powers  are  wielded  by  love,  they 
will  appear  the  supplements  and  continuations  of  the  material 
creation. 


XIV 

BEAUTY 

THE  spiral  tendency  of  vegetation  infects  education  also. 
Our  books  approach  very  slowly  the  things  we  most  wish 
to  know.  What  a  parade  we  make  of  our  science,  and  how 
far  off,  and  at  arm's  length,  it  is  from  its  objects!  Our 
botany  is  all  names,  not  powers:  poets  and  romancers  talk 
of  herbs  of  grace  and  healing;  but  what  does  the  botanist 
know  of  the  virtues  of  his  weeds?  The  geologist  lays  bare 
the  strata,  and  can  tell  them  all  on  his  fingers:  but  does  he 
know  what  effect  passes  into  the  man  who  builds  his  house  in 
them?  what  effect  on  the  race  that  inhabits  a  granite  shelf? 
what  on  the  inhabitants  of  marl  and  of  alluvium  ? 

We  should  go  to  the  ornithologist  with  a  new  feeling,  if 
he  could  teach  us  what  the  social  birds  say,  when  they  sit 
in  the  autumn  council,  talking  together  in  the  trees.  The 
want  of  sympathy  makes  his  record  a  dull  dictionary.  His 
result  is  a  dead  bird.  The  bird  is  not  in  its  ounces  and 
inches,  but  in  its  relations  to  Nature;  and  the  skin  or  skele 
ton  3^ou  show  me  is  mo  more  a  heron,  than  a  heap  of  ashes 
or  a  bottle  of  gases  into  which  his  body  has  been  reduced, 
is  Dante  or  Washington.  The  naturalist  is  led  from  the 
road  by  the  whole  distance  of  his  fancied  advance.  The 
boy  had  juster  views  when  he  gazed  at  the  shells  on  the 
beach,  or  the  flowers  in  the  meadow,  unable  to  call  them  by 
their  names,  than  the  man  in  the  pride  of  his  nomenclature. 
Astrology  interested  us,  for  it  tied  man  to  the  system.  In 
stead  of  an  isolated  beggar,  the  farthest  star  felt  him,  and 
he  felt  the  star.  However  rash  and  however  falsified  by 
pretenders  and  traders  in  it,  the  hint  was  true  and  divine,  the 
soul's  avowal  of  its  large  relations,  and  that  climate,  century, 
remote  natures,  as  well  as  near,  are  part  of  its  biography. 

272 


BEAUTY  273 

Chemistry  takes  to  pieces,  but  it  does  not  construct.  Al 
chemy  which  sought  to  transmute  one  element  into  another, 
to  prolong  life,  to  arm  with  power, — that  was  in  the  right 
direction.  All  our  science  lacks  a  human  side.  The  ten 
ant  is  more  than  the  house.  Bugs  and  stamens  and  spores, 
on  which  we  lavish  so  many  years,  are  not  finalities,  and 
man,  when  his  powers  unfold  in  order,  will  take  Nature 
along  with  him,  and  emit  light  into  all  her  recesses.  The 
human  heart  concerns  us  more  than  the  poring  into  micro 
scopes,  and  is  larger  than  can  be  measured  by  the  pompous 
figures  of  the  astronomer. 

We  are  just  so  frivolous  and  sceptical.  Men  hold  them 
selves  cheap  and  vile :  and  yet  a  man  is  a  fagot  of  thunder 
bolts.  All  the  elements  pour  through  his  system:  he  is  the 
flood  of  the  flood,  and  fire  of  the  fire;  he  feels  the  antipodes 
and  the  pole,  as  drops  of  his  blood:  they  are  the  extension 
of  his  personality.  His  duties  are  measured  by  that  in 
strument  he  is;  and  a  right  and  perfect  man  would  be  felt  to 
the  center  of  the  Copernican  system.  'T  is  curious  that  we 
only  believe  as  deep  as  we  live.  We  do  not  think  heroes 
can  exert  any  more  awful  power  than  that  surface-play 
which  amuses  us.  A  deep  man  believes  in  miracles,  waits 
for  them,  believes  in  magic,  believes  that  the  orator  will 
decompose  his  adversary;  believes  that  the  evil  eye  can 
wither,  that  the  heart's  blessing  can  heal;  that  love  can  ex 
alt  talent;  can  overcome  all  odds.  From  a  great  heart 
secret  magnetisms  flow  incessantly  to  draw  great  events. 
But  we  prize  very  humble  utilities,  a  prudent  husband,  a 
good  son,  a  voter,  a  citizen,  and  deprecate  any  romance  of 
character;  and  perhaps  reckon  only  his  money  value, — his 
intellect,  his  affection,  as  a  sort  of  bill  of  exchange,  easily 
convertible  into  fine  chambers,  pictures,  music,  and  wine. 

The  motive  of  science  was  the  extension  of  man,  on  all 
aides,  into  Nature,  till  his  hands  should  touch  the  stars, 
his  eyes  see  through  the  earth;  his  ears  understand  the  lan 
guage  of  beast  and  bird,  and  the  sense  of  the  wind;  and, 
through  his  sympathy,  heaven  and  earth  should  talk  with 
him.  But  that  is  not  dur  science.  These  geologies,  chem 
istries,  astronomies,  seem  to  make  wise,  but  they  leave  us 
where  they  found  us.  The  invention  is  of  use  to  the  inven- 


274  BEAUTY 

tor,  of  questionable  help  to  any  other.  The  formulas  of 
science  are  like  the  papers  in  your  pocket-book,  of  no  value 
to  any  but  the  owner.  Science  in  England,  in  America,  is 
jealous  of  theory,  hate  the  name  of  love  and  moral  purpose. 
There's  a  revenge  for  this  inhumanity.  What  manner  of 
man  does  science  make?  The  boy  is  not  attracted.  He 
says,  I  do  not  wish  to  be  such  a  kind  of  man  as  my  professor 
is.  The  collector  has  dried  all  the  plants  in  his  herbal,  but 
he  has  lost  weight  and  humor.  He  has  got  all  snakes  and 
lizards  in  his  phials,  but  science  has  done  for  him  also,  and 
has  put  the  man  into  a  bottle.  Our  reliance  on  the_|)hy- 
si^^^s^J^^j^H^^pir  ofjrnrspWpg  The  clergyhavc 
br^nchitis7^hich~^o!oesiiot  seem  a  certificate  of  spiritual 
health.  Macready  thought  it  came  of  the  falsetto  of  their 
voicing.  An  Indian  prince,  Tisso,  one  day  riding  in  the 
forest,  saw  a  herd  of  elk  sporting.  "See  how  happy/'  he  said, 
"these  browsing  elks  are!  Why  should  not  priests,  lodged 
and  fed  comfortably  in  the  temples,  also  amuse  themselves?" 
Returning  home,  he  imparted  this  reflection  to  the  king. 
The  king,  on  the  next  day,  conferred  the  sovereignty  on  him, 
saying,  "Prince,  adminster  this  empire  for  seven  days:  at 
the  termination  of  that  period,  I  shall  put  thee  to  death." 
At  the  end  of  the  seventh  day,  the  king  inquired,  "From 
what  cause  hast  thou  become  so  emaciated?"  He  answered, 
"From  the  horror  of  death."  The  monarch  rejoined: 
"Live,  my  child,  and  be  wise.  Thou  hast  ceased  to  take 
recreation,  saying  to  thyself,  In  seven  days  I  shall  be  put  to 
death.  These  priests  in  the  temple  incessantly  meditate  on 
death;  how  can  they  enter  into  healthful  diversions?" 
But  the  men  of  science  or  the  doctors  or  the  clergy  are  not 
victims  of  their  pursuits,  more  than  others.  The  miller, 
the  lawyer,  and  the  merchant  dedicate  themselves  to  their 
own  details,  and  do  not  come  out  men  of  more  force.  Have 
they  divination,  grand  aims,  hospitality  of  soul,  and  the 
equality  to  any  event,  which  we  demand  in  man,  or  only 
the  reactions  of  the  mill,  of  the  wares,  of  the  chicane? 

No  object  really  interests  us  but  man,  and  in  man  only 
his  superiorities;  and  though  we  are' aware  of  a  perfect  law 
in  Nature,  it  has  fascination  for  us  only  through  its  relation 


BEAUTY  275 

to  him,  of,  as  it  is  rooted  in  the  mind.  At  the  birth  of  Winck- 
elmann,  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  side  by  side  with 
this  arid,  departmenal,  post-mortem  science,  rose  an  en 
thusiasm  in  the  study  of  Beauty;  and  perhaps  some  sparks 
from  it  may  yet  light  a  conflagration  in  the  other.  Know 
ledge  of  men,  knowledge  of  manners,  the  power  of  form, 
and  our  sensibility  to  personal  influence,  never  go  out  of 
fashion.  These  are  facts  of  a  science  which  we  study  without 
book,  whose  teachers  and  subjects  are  always  near  us. 

So  inveterate  is  our  habit  of  criticism,  that  much  of  our 
knowledge  in  this  direction  belongs  to  the  chapter  of 
pathology.  The  crowd  in  the  street  oftener  furnishes  de 
gradations  than  angels  or  redeemers;  but  they  all  prove 
the  transparency.  Every  spirit  makes  its  house;  and  we  can 
give  a  shrewd  guess  from  the  house  to  the  inhabitant.  But 
not  less  does  Nature  furnish  us  with  every  sign  of  grace  and 
goodness.  The  delicious  faces  of  children,  the  beauty  of 
school-girls,  "the  sweet  seriousness  of  sixteen,"  the  lofty 
air  of  well-born,  well-bred  boys,  the  passionate  histories 
in  the  looks  and  manners  of  youth  and  early  manhood,  and 
the  varied  power  in  all  that  well-known  company  that 
escort  us  through  life, — we  know  how  these  forms  thrill, 
paralyze,  provoke,  inspire,  and  enlarge  us. 

Beauty  is  the  form  under  which  the  intellect  prefers  toV 
study  the  world.    All  privilege  is  that  of  beauty;  for  there  jpr 
are  many  beauties;  as,  of  general  nature,  of  the  human  face,/ 
and  form,  of  manners,  of  brain,  or  method,  moral  beauty,  or 
beauty  of  the  soul. 

The  ancients  believed  that  a  genius  or  demon  took  posses 
sion  at  birth  of  each  mortal,  to  guide  him;  that  these  genii 
were  sometimes  seen  as  a  flame  of  fire  partly  immersed  in 
the  bodies  which  they  governed; — on  an  evil  man,  resting  on 
his  head;  in  a  good  man,  mixed  with  his  substance.  They 
thought  the  same  genius,  at  the  death  of  its  ward,  entered  a 
new-born  child,  and  they  pretended  to  guess  the  pilot,  by 
the  sailing  of  the  ship.  We  recognize  obscurely  the  same 

fact,  though  we  give  it  our  own  names.    We  say,  that  every  . 

man  is  entitled  to  be  valued  by  his  best  moment.    We  meas 
ure  our  frjends  so.    We  know,  they  have  intervals  of  folly, 


276  BEAUTY 

whereof  we  take  no  heed,  but  wait  the  reappearings  of  the 
genius,  which  are  sure  and  beautiful.  On  the  other  side, 
everybody  knows  people  who  appear  bedridden,  and  who, 
with  all  degrees  of  ability,  never  impress  us  with  the  air  of 
free  agency.  They  know  it  too,  and  peep  with  their  eyes 
to  see  if  you  detect  their  sad  plight.  We  fancy,  could  we 
pronounce  the  solving  word,  and  disenchant  them,  the  cloud 
would  roll  up,  the  little  rider  would  be  discovered  and  un 
seated,  and  they  would  regain  their  freedom.  The  remedy 
seems  to  be  never  far  off,  since  the  first  step  into  thought 
lifts  this  mountain  of  necessity.  Thought  is  the  pent  air- 
ball  which  can  rive  the  planet,  and  the  beauty  which  certain 
objects  have  for  him  is  the  friendly  fire  which  expands  the 
thought,  and  acquaints  the  prisoner  that  liberty  and  power 
await  him. 

The  question  of  Beauty  takes  us  out  of  surfaces,  to 
thinking  of  the  foundations  of  things.  Goethe  said:  "The 
beautiful  is  a  manifestation  of  secret  laws  of  Nature,  which, 
but  for  this  appearance,  had  been  forever  concealed  from 
us."  And  the  working  of  this  deep  instinct  makes  all  the 
excitement — much  of  it  superficial  and  absurd  enough — 
about  works  of  art,  which  leads  armies  of  vain  travellers 
every  year  to  Italy,  Greece,  and  Egypt.  Every  man  values 
every  acquisition  he  makes  in  the  science  of  beauty,  above 
his  possessions.  The  most  useful  man  in  the  most  useful 
world,  so  long  as  only  commodity  wras  served,  would  remain 
unsatisfied.  But,  as  fast  as  he  sees  beauty,  life  acquires  a 
very  high  value. 

I  am  warned  by  the  ill  fate  ,of  many  philosophers  not  to 
attempt  a  definition  of  Beauty.  I  will  rather  enumerate  a 
few  of  its  qualities.  We  ascribe  beauty  to  that  which  is 
simple;  which  has  no  superfluous  parts;  which  exactly  an 
swers  its  end;  which  stands  related  to  all  things;  which  is 
the  mean  of  many  extremes.  It  is  the  most  enduring  qual 
ity,  and  the  most  ascending  quality.  We  say  love  is  blind, 
and  the  figure  of  Cupid  is  drawn  with  a  bandage  round  his 
eyes.  Blind: — yes,  because  he  does  not  see  what  he  does 
not  like;  but  the  sharpest-sighted  hunter  in  the  universe  is 
Love,  for  finding  what  he  seeks,  and  only  that;  and  the 


BEAUTY  277 

mythologists  tell  us,  that  Vulcan  was  painted  lame,  and  Cupid 
blind,  to  call  attention  to  the  fact,  that  one  was  all  limbs, 
and  the  other,  all  eyes.  In  the  true  mythology,  Love  is 
an  immortal  child,  and  Beauty  leads  him  as  a  guide:  nor 
can  we  express  a  deeper  sense  than  when  we  say,  Beauty  is 
the  pilot  of  the  young  soul. 

Beyond  their  sensuous  delight,  the  forms  and  colors  of 
Nature  have  a  new  charm  for  us  in  our  perception,  that  not 
one  ornament  was  added  for  ornament,  but  each  is  a  sign 
of  some  better  health,  or  more  excellent  action.  Elegance  of 
form  in  bird  or  beast,  or  in  the  human  figure,  marks  some 
excellence  of  structure :  or  beauty  is  only  an  invitation  from 
what  belongs  to  us.  'T  is  a  law  of  botany,  that  in  plants, 
the  same  virtues  follow  the  same  forms.  It  is  a  rule  of 
largest  application,  true  in  a  plant,  true  in  a  loaf  of  bread, 
that  in  the  construction  of  any  fabric  or  organism,  any  real 
increase  of  fitness  to  its  end,  is  an  increase  of  beauty. 

The  lesson  taught  by  the  study  of  Greek  and  of  Gothic 
art,  of  antique  and  of  Pre-Raphaelite  painting,  was  worth 
all  the  research, — namely,  that  all  beauty  must  be  organic; 
that  outside  embellishment  is  deformity.  It  is  the  soundness 
of  the  bones  that  ultimates  itself  in  a  peach-bloom  com 
plexion:  health  of  constitution  that  makes  the  sparkle  and 
the  power  of  the  eye.  'T  is  the  adjustment  of  the  size  and 
of  the  joining  of  the  sockets  of  the  skeleton,  that  gives  grace 
of  outline  and  the  finer  grace  of  movement.  The  cat  and 
the  deer  cannot  move  or  sit  inelegantly.  The  dancing- 
master  can  never  teach  a  badly  built  man  to  walk  well.  The 
tint  of  the  flower  proceeds  from  its  root,  and  the  lustres  of 
the  sea-shell  begin  with  its  existence.  Hence  our  taste  in 
building  rejects  paint,  and  all  shifts,  and  shows  the  original 
grain  of  the  wood:  refuses  pilasters  and  columns  that  support 
nothing,  and  allows  the  real  supporters  of  the  house  honestly 
to  show  themselves.  Every  necessary  or  organic  action 
pleases  the  beholder.  A  man  leading  a  horse  to  water,  a 
farmer  sowing  seed,  the  labors  of  haymakers  in  the  field, 
the  carpenter  building  a  ship,  the  smith  at  his  forge,  or, 
whatever  useful  labor,  is  becoming  to  the  wise  eye.  But  if 
it  is  done  to  be  seen,  it  is  mean.  How  beautiful  are  ships 


278  BEAUTY 

on  the  sea!  but  ships  in  the  theatre, — or  ships  kept  for 
picturesque  effect  on  Virginia  Water,  by  George  IV.,  and 
men  hired  to  stand  in  fitting  costumes  at  a  penny  an  hour ! 
— What  a  difference  in  effect  between  a  battalion  of  troops 
marching  to  action,  and  one  of  our  independent  compa 
nies  on  a  holiday!  In  the  midst  of  a  military  show,  and  a 
festal  procession  gay  with  banners,  I  saw  a  boy  seize  an  old 
tin  pan  that  lay  resting  under  a  wall,  and  poising  it  on  the 
top  of  a  stick,  he  set  it  turning,  and  made  it  describe  the 
most  elegant  imaginable  curves,  and  drew  away  attention 
from  the  decorated  procession  by  this  startling  beauty. 

Another  text  from  the  mythologists.  The  Greeks  fabled 
that  Venus  was  born  of  the  foam  of  the  sea.  JNpthing  inter 
ests  us  which  is  stark  or  bounded,  but  only  what  streams 
with  life,  what  is  in  act  or  endeavor  to  reach  somewhat 
beyond.  The  pleasure  a  palace  or  a  temple  gives  the  eye, 
is,  that  an  order  and  method  has  been  communicated  to 
stones,  so  that  they  speak  and  geometrize,  become  tender  or 
sublime  with  expression.  J^gauty  is  the  moment  of  tran 
sition,  as  if  the  form  were  just  ready  to  flow  into  other 
forms.  Any  fixedness,  heaping,  or  concentration  on  one 
feature, — a  long  nose,  a  sharp  chin,  a  hump-back, — is  the 
reverse  of  the  flowing,  and  therefore  deformed.  JBeautiful 
as  is  the  symmetry  of  any  form,  if  the  form  can  move,  we 
seek  a  more  excellent  symmetry.  The  interruption  of 
equilibrium  stimulates  the  eye  to  desire  the  restoration  of 
symmetry,  and  to  watch  the  steps  through  which  it  is  at 
tained.  This  is  the  charm  of  running  water,  sea-waves,  the 
flight  of  birds,  and  the  locomotion  of  animals.  This  is  the 
theory  of  dancing,  to  recover  continually  in  changes  the 
lost  equilibrium,  not  by  abrupt  and  angular,  but  by  gradual 
and  curving  movements.  I  have  been  told  by  persons  of 
experience  in  matters  of  taste,  that  the  fashions  follow  a 
law  of  gradation,  and  are  never  arbitrary.  The  new  mode  is 
always  only  a  step  onward  in  the  same  direction  as  the  last 
mode ;  and  a  cultivated  eye  is  prepared  for  and  predicts  the 
new  fashion.  This  fact  suggests  the  reason  of  all  mistakes 
and  offence  in  our  own  modes.  It  is  necessary  in  music,  when 
you  strike  J  discord,  to  let  down  the  ear  by  an  intermediate 
'  J>  It 

€\ 


BEAUTY  279 

note  or  two  to  the  accord  again:  and  many  a  good  experi 
ment,  born  of  good  sense,  and  destined  to  succeed,  fails,  only 
because  it  is  offensively  sudden.  I  suppose,  the  Parisian 
milliner  who  dresses  the  world  from  her  imperious  boudoir, 
will  know  how  to  reconcile  the  Bloomer  costume  to  the  eye 
of  mankind,  and  make  it  triumphant  over  Punch  himself, 
by  interposing  the  just  gradations.  I  need  not  say  how  wide 
the  same  law  ranges;  and  how  much  it  can  be  hoped  to 
effect.  All  that  is  a  little  harshly  claimed  by  progressive 
parties  may  easily  come  to  be  conceded  without  question, 
if  this  rule  be  observed.  Thus  the  circumstances  may  be 
easily  imagined,  in  which  woman  may  speak,  vote,  argue 
causes,  legislate,  and  drive  a  coach,  and  all  the  most  naturally 
in  the  world,  if  only  it  come  by  degrees.  To  this  streaming 
or  flowing  belongs  the  beauty  that  all  circular  movement 
has;  as,  the  circulation  of  waters,  the  circulation  of  the 
blood,  the  periodical  motion  of  planets,  the  annual  wave  of 
vegetation,  the  action  and  reaction  of  Nature;  and,  if  we 
follow  it  out,  this  demand  in  our  thought  for  an  ever- 
onward  action  is  the  argument  for  the  immortality. 

One  more  text  from  the  mythologists  is  to  the  same  pur 
pose, — Beauty  rides  on  a  lion.  Beauty  rests  on  necessiti 
The  line  of  beauty  is  the  result  of  perfect  economy.  The  cell 
of  the  bee  is  built  at  that  angle  which  gives  the  most  strength 
with  the  least  wax;  the  bone  or  the  quill  of  the  bird  gives 
the  most  alar  strength  with  the  least  weight.  "It  is  the 
purgation  of  superfluities,"  said  Michel  Angelo.  There  is 
not  a  particle  to  spare  in  natural  structures.  There  is  a 
compelling  reason  in  the  uses  of  the  plant,  for  every  novelty 
of  color  or  form:  and  our  art  saves  material,  by  more  skilr 
ful  arrangement,  and  reaches  beauty  by  taking  every  super 
fluous  ounce  that  can  be  spared  frorrfa  wall,  and  keeping  all 
its  strength  in  the  poetry  of  columns.  In  rhetoric,  this 
art  of  omission  is  a  chief  secret  of  power,  and,  in  general,  it 
is  proof  of  high  culture,  to  say  the  greatest  matters  in  the 
simplest  way. 

Veracity  first  of  all,  and  forever.  Rien  de  beau  que  le 
vrai.  In  all  design,  art  lies  in  making  your  object  prominent, 
but  there  is  a  prior  part  in  choosing  objects  that  are  prom- 


280  BEAUTY 

inent.    The  fine  arts  have  nothing  casual,  but  spring  from 
the  instincts  of  the  nations  that  created  them. 

Beauty  is  the  quality  which  makes  to  endure.  In  a  house 
that  I  know,  I  have  noticed  a  block  of  spermaceti  lying 
about  closets  and  mantel-pieces,  for  twenty  years  together, 
simply  because  the  tallow-man  gave  it  the  form  of  a  rabbit; 
and,  I  suppose,  it  may  continue  to  be  lugged  about  un 
changed  for  a  century.  Let  an  artist  scrawl  a  few  lines  or 
figures  on  the  back  of  a  letter,  and  that  scrap  of  paper  is 
rescued  from  danger,  is  put  in  portfolio,  is  framed  and 
glazed,  and,  in  proportion  to  the  beauty  of  the  lines  drawn, 
will  be  kept  for  centuries.  Burns  writes  a  copy  of  verses, 
and  sends  them  to  a  newspaper,  and  the  human  race  take 
charge  of  them  that  they  shall  not  perish. 

As  the  flute  is  heard  farther  than  the  cart,  see  how  surely 
a  beautiful  form  strikes  the  fancy  of  men,  and  is  copied 
and  reproduced  without  end.  How  many  copies  are  there 
of  the  Belvedere  Apollo,  the  Venus,  the  Psyche,  the  War 
wick  Vase,  the  Parthenon,  and  the  Temple  of  Vesta  ?  These 
are  objects  of  tenderness  to  all.  In  our  cities,  an  ugly 
building  is  soon  removed,  and  is  never  repeated,  but  any 
beautiful  building  is  copied  and  improved  upon,  so  that 
all  masons  and  carpenters  work  to  repeat  and  preserve  the 
agreeable  forms,  whilst  the  ugly  ones  die  out. 

The  felicities  of  design  in  art,  or  in  works  of  Nature,  are 
shadows  or  forerunners  of  that  beauty  wrhich  reaches  its 
perfection  in  the  human  form.  All  men  are  its  lovers. 
Wherever  it  goes,  it  creates  joy  and  hilarity,  and  every 
thing  is  permitted  to  it.  It  reaches  its  height  in  woman. 
"To  Eve,"  say  the  Mahometans,  "God  gave  two  thirds  of 
all  beauty."  A  beautiful  woman  is  a  practical  poet, 'taming 
her  savage  mate,  planting  tenderness,  hope,  and  eloquence 
in  all  whom  she  approaches.  Some  favors  of  condition 
must  go  with  it,  since  a  certain  serenity  is  essential,  but  we 
love  its  reproofs  and  superiorities.  Nature  wishes  that  wo 
man  should  attract  man,  yet  she  often  cunningly  moulds  into 
her  face  a  little  sarcasm,  which  seems  to  say,  "Yes,  I  arn 
willing  to  attract,  but  to  attract  a  little  better  kind  of  man 
than  any  I  yet  behold,"  French  memoires  of  the  fifteenth 


BEAUTY  281 

century  celebrate  the  name  of  Pauline  de  Viguiere,  a  vir 
tuous  and  accomplished  maiden,  who  so  fired  the  enthu 
siasm  of  her  contemporaries,  by  her  enchanting  form,  that 
the  citizens  of  her  native  city  of  Toulouse  obtained  the  aid 
of  the  civil  authorities  to  compel  her  to  appear  publicly  on 
the  balcony  at  least  twice  a  week,  and,  as  often  as  she  showed 
herself,  the  crowd  was  dangerous  to  life.  Not  less,  in  Eng 
land,  in  the  last  century,  was  the  fame  of  the  Gunnings,  of 
whom  Elizabeth  married  the  Duke  of  Hamilton;  and  Maria, 
the  Earl  of  Coventry.  Walpole  says:  "The  concourse  was 
so  great,  when  the  Duchess  of  Hamilton  was  presented  at 
court,  on  Friday,  that  even  the  noble  crowd  in  the  drawing- 
room  clambered  on  chairs  and  tables  to  look  at  her.  There 
are  mobs  at  their  doors  to  see  them  get  into  their  chairs,  and 
people  go  early  to  get  places  at  the  theatres,  when  it  is 
known  they  will  be  there."  "Such  crowds,"  he  adds,  else 
where,  "flock  to  see  the  Duchess  of  Hamilton,  that  seven 
hundred  people  sat  up  all  night,  in  and  about  an  inn,  in 
Yorkshire,  to  see  her  get  into  her  post-chaise  next  morning." 

But  why  need  we  console  ourselves  with  the  fames  of 
Helen  -of  Argos,  or  Corinna,  or  Pauline  of  Toulouse,  or  the 
Duchess  of  Hamilton?  We  all  know  this  magic  very  well, 
or  can  divine  it.  It  does  not  hurt  weak  eyes  to  look  into 
beautiful  eyes  never  so  long.  Women  stand  related  to 
beautiful  Nature  around  us,  and  the  enamored  youth  mixes 
their  form  with  moon  and  stars,  with  woods  and  waters,  and 
the  pomp  of  summer.  They  heal  us  of  awkwardness  by 
their  words  and  looks.  We  observe  their  intellectual  in 
fluence  on  the  most  serious  student.  They  refine  and  clear 
his  mind;  teach  him  to  put  a  pleasing  method  into  what  is 
dry  and  difficult.  We  talk  to  them  and  wish  to  be  listened 
to;  we  fear  to  fatigue  them,  and  acquire  a  facility  of  ex 
pression  which  passes  from  conversation  into  habit  of  style. 

That  Beauty  is  the  normal  state,  is  shown  by  the  perpetual 
effort  of  Nature  to  attain  it.  Mirabeau  had  an  ugly  face" 
on  a  handsome  ground;  and  we  see  faces  every  day  which 
have  a  good  type,  but  have  been  marred  in  the  casting:  a 
proof  that  we  are  all  entitled  to  beauty,  should  have  been 
beautiful,  if  our  ancestors  had  kept  the  laws, — as  every  lily 


282  BEAUTY 

and  every  rose  is  well.  But  our  bodies  do  not  fit  us,  but 
caricature  and  satirize  us.  Thus,  short  legs,  which  constrain 
to  short,  mincing  steps,  are  a  kind  of  personal  insult  and 
contumely  to  the  owner;  and  long  stilts,  again,  put  him  at 
perpetual  disadvantage,  and  force  him  to  stoop  to  the  gen 
eral  level  of  mankind.  Martial  ridicules  a  gentleman  of  his 
day  whose  countenance  resembled  the  face  of  a  swimmer 
seen  under  water.  Saadi  describes  a  schoolmaster  "so  ugly 
and  crabbed,  that  a  sight  of  him  would  derange  the  ecstasies 
of  the  orthodox."  Faces  are  rarely  true  to  any  ideal  type, 
but  are  a  record  in  sculpture  of  a  thousand  anecdotes  of 
whim  and  folly.  Portrait  painters  say  that  most  faces  and 
forms  are  irregular  and  unsymmetrical ;  have  one  eye  blue, 
and  one  gray;  the  nose  not  straight;  and  one  shoulder  higher 
than  another;  the  hair  unequally  distributed,  etc.  The 
man  is  physically  as  well  as  metaphysically  a  thing  of 
shreds  and  patches,  borrowed  unequally  from  good  and 
bad  ancestors,  and  a  misfit  from  the  start. 

A  beautiful  person,  among  the  Greeks,  was  thought  to 
betray  by  this  sign  some  secret  favor  of  the  immortal  gods; 
and  we  can  pardon  pride,  when  a  woman  possesses  such  a 
figure,  that  wherever  she  stands,  or  moves,  or  throws  a 
shadow  on  the  wall,  or  sits  for  a  portrait  to  the  artist,  she 
confers  a  favor  on  the  world.  And  yet — it  is  not  beauty 
that  inspires  the  deepest  passion.  Beauty  without  grace 
is  the  hook  without  the  bait.  Beauty,  without  expression, 
tires.  Abbe  Menage  said  of  the  President  Le  Bailleul, 
"that  he  was  fit  for  nothing  but  to  sit  for  his  portrait."  A 
Greek  epigram  intimates  that  the  force  of  love  is  not  shown 
by  the  courting  of  beauty,  but  when  the  like  desire  is  in 
flamed  for  one  who  is  ill-favored.  And  petulant  old  gentle 
men,  who  have  chanced  to  suffer  some  intolerable  weariness 
from  pretty  people,  or  who  have  seen  cut  flowers  to  some 
profusion,  or  who  see,  after  a  world  of  pains  have  been 
successfully  taken  for  the  costume,  how  the  least  mistake  in 
sentiment  takes  all  the  beauty  out  of  your  clothes, — affirm, 
that  the  secret  of  ugliness  consists  not  in  irregularity,  but  in 
being  uninjglgstiug. 

We  love  any  forms,  however  ugly,  from  which  great  qual- 


BEAUTY  283 

ities  shine.  If  command,  eloquence,  art,  or  invention  exist 
in  the  most  deformed  person,  all  the  accidents  that  usually 
displease,  please,  and  raise  esteem  and  wonder  higher.  The 
great  orator  was  an  emaciated,  insignificant  person,  but  he  was 
all  brain.  Cardinal  De  Retz  says  of  De  Bouillon,  "With  the 
physiognomy  of  an  ox,  he  had  the  perspicacity  of  an  eagle." 
It  was  said  of  Hooke,  the  friend  of  Newton,  "He  is  the  most, 
and  promises  the  least,  of  any  man  in  England."  "Since  I 
am  so  ugly,"  said  Du  Guesclin,  "it  behooves  that  I  be  bold." 
Sir  Philip  Sidney,  the  darling  of  mankind,  Ben  Jonson  tells 
us,  "was  no  pleasant  man  in  countenance,  his  face  being 
spoiled  with  pimples,  and  of  high  blood,  and  long."  Those 
who  have  ruled  human  destinies,  like  planets,  for  thousands 
of  years,  were  not  handsome  men.  If  a  man  can  raise  a 
small  city  to  be  a  great  kingdom,  can  make  bread  cheap, 
can  irrigate  deserts,  can  join  oceans  by  canals,  can  subdue 
steam,  can  organize  victory,  can  lead  the  opinions  of  man 
kind,  can  enlarge  knowledge,  't  is  no  matter  whether  his 
nose  is  parallel  to  his  spine,  as  it  ought  to  be,  or  whether  he 
has  a  nose  at  all;  whether  his  legs  are  straight,  or  whether 
his  legs  are  amputated;  his  deformities  will  come  to  be 
reckoned  ornamental  and  advantageous  on  the  whole.  This 
is  the  triumph  of  expression,  degrading  beauty,  charming  us 
with  a  power  so  fine  and  friendly  and  intoxicating,  that  it 
makes  admired  persons  insipid,  and  the  thought  of  passing 
our  lives  with  them  insupportable.  There  are  faces  so 
fluid  with  expression,  so  flushed  and  rippled  by  the  play  of 
thought,  that  we  can  hardly  find  what  the  mere  features 
really  are.  When  the  deliciojLis  beauty  of  lineaments  loses 
its  power,  it  is  because  a  more  delicious  beauty  has  appeared ; 
that  an  interior  and  durable  form  has  been  disclosed.  Still, 
Beauty  rides  on  her  lion,  as  before.  Still,  "it  was  for  beauty 
that  the  world  was  made."  The  lives  of  the  Italian  artists, 
who  established  a  despotism  of  genius  amidst  the  dukes  and 
kings  and  mobs  of  their  stormy  epoch,  prove  how  loyal  men 
in  all  times  are  to  a  finer  brain,  a  finer  method,  than  their 
own.  If  a  man  can  cut  such  a  head  on  his  stone  gate-post 
as  shall  draw  and  keep  a  crowd  about  it  all  day,  by  its  grace, 
good-nature,  and  inscrutable  meaning; — if  a  man  can 


2S4  BEAUTY 

build  a  plain  cottage  with  such  symmetry,  as  to  make  all  the 
fine  palaces  look  cheap  and  vulgar;  can  take  such  advantage 
of  Nature  that  all  her  powers  serve  him;  making  use  of 
geometry,  instead  of  expense;  tapping  a  mountain  for  his 
water-jet;  causing  the  sun  and  moon  to  seem  only  the  dec 
orations  of  his  estate;  this  is  still  the  legitimate  dominion 
of  beauty. 

The  radiance  of  the  human  form,  though  sometimes 
astonishing,  is  only  a  burst  of  beauty  for  a  few  years  or  a 
few  months,  at  the  perfection  of  youth,  and  in  most,  rapidly 
declines.  But  we  remain  lovers  of  it,  only  transferring  our 
interest  to  interior  excellence.  And  it  is  not  only  admirable 
in  singular  and  salient  talents,  but  also  in  the  world  of  man 
ners. 

But  the  sovereign  attribute  remains  to  be  noted.  Things 
are  pretty,  graceful,  rich,  elegant,  handsome,  but,  until  they 
speak  to  the  imagination,  not  yet  beautiful.  This  is  the 
reason  why  beauty  is  still  escaping  out  of  all  analysis.  It  is 
not  yet  possessed,  it  cannot  be  handled.  Proclus  says,  "It 
swims  on  the  light  of  forms."  It  is  properly  not  in  the  form, 
but  in  the  mind.  It  instantly  deserts  possession,  and  flies 
to  an  object  in  the  horizon.  If  I  could  put  my  hand  on  the 
north  star,  would  it  be  as  beautiful?  The  sea  is  lovely,  but 
when  we  bathe  in  it,  the  beauty  forsakes  all  the  near  water. 
For  the  imagination  and  senses  cannot  be  gratified  at  the 
tsame  time.  Wordsworth  rightly  speaks  of  "a  light  that 
never  was  on  sea  or  land/'  meaning,  that  it  was  supplied  by 
the  observer,  and  the  Welsh  bard  warns  his  countrywomen, 
that 

"Half  of  their  charms  with  Cadwallon  shall  die." 

The  new  virtue  which  constitutes  a  thing  beautiful  is  a  cer 
tain  cosmical  quality,  or,  a  power  to  suggest  relation  to 
the  whole  world,  and  so  lift  the  object  out  of  a  pitiful  in 
dividuality.  Every  natural  feature — sea,  sky,  rainbow, 
flowers,  musical  tone — has  in  it  somewhat  which  is  not 
private,  but  universal,  speaks  of  that  central  benefit  which 
is  the  soul  of  Nature,  and  thereby  is  beautiful.  And,  in 
chosen  men  and  women,  I  find  somewhat  in  form,  speech,  and 


BEAUTY  285 


manners,  which  is  not  of  their  person  and  family,  btft  of  a 
humane,  catholic,  and  spiritual  character,  and  we  lojipthem 
as  the  sky.  They  have  a  largeness  of  suggestion,  Jjnd  their 
face  and  manners  carry  a  certain  grandeur,  like  time  and 
justice. 

The  feat  of  the  imagination  is  in  showing  the  convert 
ibility  of  everything  into  every  other  thing.  Facts  which 
had  never  before  left  their  stark  common  sense  suddenly 
figure  as  Eleusinian  mysteries.  My  boots  and  chair  and 
candlestick  are  fairies  in  disguise,  meteors  and  constellations. 
All  the  facts  in  Nature  are  nouns  of  the  intellect,  and  make 
the  grammar  of  the  eternal  language.  Every  word  has  a 
double,  treble,  or  centuple  use  and  meaning.  What!  has 
my  stove  and  pepper-pot  a  false  bottom !  I  cry  you  mercy, 
good  shoe-box!  I  did  not  know  you  were  a  jewel-case. 
Chaff  and  dust  begin  to  sparkle,  and  are  clothed  about  with 
immortality.  And  there  is  a  joy  in  perceiving  the  represen 
tative  or  symbolic  character  of  a  fact,  which  no  bare  fact  or 
event  can  ever  give.  There  are  no  days  in  life  so  memorable 
as  those  which  vibrated  to  some  stroke  of  the  imagination. 

The  poets  are  quite  right  in  decking  their  mistresses  with 
the  spoils  of  the  landscape,  flower-gardens,  gems,  rainbows, 
flushes  of  morning,  and  stars  of  night,  since  all  beauty  points 
at  identity,  and  whatsoever  thing  does  not  express  to  me 
the  sea  and  sky,  day  and  night,  is  somewhat  forbidden  and 
wrong.  Into  every  beautiful  object  there  enters  somewhat 
immeasurable  and  divine,  and  just  as  much  into  form 
bounded  by  outlines,  like  mountains  on  the  horizon,  as  into 
tones  of  music,  or  depths  of  space.  Polarized  light  showed 
the  secret  architecture  of  bodies;  and  when  the  second- 
sight  of  the  mind  is  opened,  now  one  color  or  form  or 
gesture,  and  now  another,  has  a  pungency,  as  if  a  more  in 
terior  ray  had  been  emitted,  disclosing  its  deep  holdings  in 
the  frame  of  things. 

The  laws  of  this  translation  we  do  not  know,  or  why  one 
feature  or  gesture  enchants,  why  one  word  or  syllable  in 
toxicates,  but  the  fact  is  familiar  that  the  fine  touch  of 
the  eye,  or  a  grace  of  manners,  or  a  phrase  of  poetry,  plants 
wings  at  our  shoulders;  as  if  the  Divinity,  in  his  approaches*, 


286  BEAUTY 

lifts  away  mountains  of  obstruction,  and  deigns  to  draw  a 
truer  line  which  the  mind  knows  and  owns.  This  is  that 
haughty  force  of  beauty,  "vis  superba  forma,"  which  the 
poets  praise, — under  calm  and  precise  outline,  the  immeas 
urable  and  divine  Beauty  hiding  all  wisdom  and  power  in 
its  calm  sky. 

All  high  beauty  has  a  moral  element  in  it,  and  I  find  the 
antique  sculpture  as  ethical  as  Marcus  Antoninus:  and  the 
beauty  ever  in  proportion  to  the  depth  of  thought.  Gross 
and  obscure  natures,  however  decorated,  seem  impure 
shambles;  but  character  gives  splendor  to  youth,  and  awe  to 
wrinkled  skin  and  gray  hairs.  An  adorer  of  truth  we  can 
not  choose  but  obey,  and  the  woman  who  has  shared  with 
us  the  moral  sentiment, — her  locks  must  appear  to  us  sub 
lime.  Thus  there  is  a  climbing  scale  of  culture,  from  the 
first  agreeable  sensation  which  a  sparkling  gem  or  a  scarlet 
stain  affords  the  eye,  up  through  fair  outlines  and  details  of 
the  landscape,  features  of  the  human  face  and  form,  signs 
and  tokens  of  thought  and  character  in  manners,  up  to  the 
ineffable  mysteries  of  the  intellect.  Wherever  we  begin, 
thither  our  steps  tend:  an  ascent  from  the  joy  of  a  horse  in 
his  trappings,  up  to  the  perception  of  Newton,  that  the  globe 
on  which  we  ride  is  only  a  larger  apple  falling  from  a  larger 
tree;  up  to  the  perception  of  Plato,  that  globe  and  universe 
are  rude  and  early  expressions  of  an  all-dissolving  Unity, — 
the  first  stair  on  the  scale  to  the  temple  of  the  Mind. 


XV 

THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR 

An  Oration  delivered  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society, 
at  Cambridge,  August  31,   1837 

MR.  PRESIDENT  AND  GENTLEMEN, 

I  GREET  you  on  the  re-comrnencement  of  our  literary  year. 
Our  anniversary  is  one  of  hope,  and,  perhaps,  not  enough  of 
labor.  We  do  not  meet  for  games  of  strength  or  skill,  for 
the  recitation  of  histories,  tragedies,  and  odes,  like  the  an 
cient  Greeks;  for  parliaments  of  love  and  poesy,  like  the 
Troubadours;  nor  for  the  advancement  of  science,  like  our 
contemporaries  in  the  British  and  European  capitals.  Thus 
far,  our  holiday  has  been  simply  a  friendly  sign  of  the  sur 
vival  of  the  love  of  le^teij^jamongst  a  people  too  busy  to> 
give  to  letters  any  more.  As*such,  it  is  precious  as  the  sign 
of  an  indestructible  instinct.  Perhaps  the  time  is  already 
come,  when  it  ought  to  be,  and  will  be  something  else;  when 
the  sluggard  intellect  of  this  continent  will  look  from  under 
its  iron  lids,  and  fill  the  postponed  expectation  of  the  world 
with  something  better  than  the  exertions  of  mechanical 
skill.  Our  day  of  dependence^  our  long^  apprenticeship  to 
the  learning  of  other  lands,  draws  to  a  close.  The  millions, 
that  around  us  are  rushing  into  life,  cannot  always  be  fed  on 
the  sere  remains  of  foreign  harvests.  Events,  actions  arise, 
that  must  be  sung,  that  will  sing  themselves.  Who  can 
doubt,  that  poetry  will  revive  and  lead  in  a  new  age,  as  the 
star  in  the  constellation  Harp,  which  now  flames  in  our 
zenith,  astronomers  announce,  shall  one  day  be  the  pole-star 
for  a  thousand  years? 

In  this  hope,  I  accept  the  topic  which  not  only  usage,  but 
the  nature  of  our  association,  seem  to  prescribe  to  this  day 

287 


288  THE  AMERICAN   SCHOLAR 

— the    American   Scholar.     Year    by    year,    we    come 
hither  to  read  one  more  chapter  of  his  biography.    Let  -us 
inquire  what  light  new  days  and  events  have  thrown  on  his 
character,  and  his  hopes. 

It  is  one  of  those  fables,  which,  out  of  an  unknown  an 
tiquity,  convey  an  unlooked-for  wisdom,  that  the  gods,  in 
the  beginning,  divided  Man  into  men,  that  he  might  be  more 
helpful  to  himself;  just  as  the  hand  was  divided  into  fingers, 
the  better  to  answer  its  end. 

The  old  fable  covers  a  doctrine  ever  new  and  sublime; 
i  that  there  is  One  Man, — present  to  all  particular  men  onlv 
(partially,  or  through  one  faculty;  and  that  you  must  take 
(the  whole  society  to  find  the  whole  man.    Man  is  not  a 
farmer,  or  professor,  or  an  engineer,  but  he  is  all.'  Man  is 
priest,    and   scholar,    and  'statesman,    and    producer,    and 
soldier.    In  the  divided  or  social  state,  these  functions  are 
parcelled  out  to  individuals,  each  of  whom  aims  to  do  his 
stint  of  the  joint  work,  whilst  each  other  performs  his.    The 
*  fable  implies,  that  the  individual,  to  possess  himself,  must 
sometimes  return  from  his  own  labor  to  embrace  all  the  other 
laborers.      But    unfortunately,     this     original     unit,     this 
fountain  of  power,  has  been  so  distributed  to  multitudes, 
has  been  so  minutely  subdivided  and  peddled  out,  that  it 
is  spilled  into  drops,  and  cannot  be  gathered.    The  state  of 
society  is  one  in  which  the  members  have  suffered  amputa 
tion  from  the  trunk,  and  strut  about  so  many  walking  mon 
sters, — a  good  finger,  a  neck,  a  stomach,  an  elbow,  but  never 
a  man. 

j£)  Man  is  thus  metamorphosed  into  a  thing,  into  many  things, 
The  planter,  who  is  Man  sent  -out  into  the  field  to  gather 
food,  is  seldom  cheered  by  any  idea,  of  the  true  dignity  of  his 
ministry.  He  sees  his  bushel  and  his  cart,  and  nothing 
beyond,  and  sinks  into  the  farmer,  instead  of  Man  on  the 
farm.  The  tradesman  scarcely  ever  gives  an  ideal  worth  to 
his  work,  but  is  ridden  by  the  routine  of  his  craft,  and  the 
soul  is  subject  to  dollars.  The  priest  becomes  a  form;  the 
attorney,  a  statute-book;  the  mechanic,  a  machine;  the 

rilor,  a  rope  of  a  ship. 
In  this  distribution  of  functions,  the  scholar  is  the  dele- 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR  289 

/gated  intellect.  In  the  right  state,  he  is  Man  Thinking.  In  \ 
the  degenerate  state,  when  the  victim  of  society,  he  tends  to  l ' 
become  a  mere  thinker,  or,  still  worse,  the  parrot  of  other 


n  this  view  of  him,  as  Man  Thinking,  the  theory  of  his 
office  is  contained.  Him  nature  solicits  with  all  her  placid, 
all  her  monitory  pictures;  him  the  past  instructs;  him  the 
future  invites.  Is  not,  indeed,  every  man  a  student,  and  do 
not  all  things  exist  for  the  student's  behoof?  And,  finally, 
is  not  the  true  scholar  the  only  true  master?  Rut  the  old 
oracle  said,  "All  things  have  two  handles:  beware  of  the 
wrong  one."  In  life,  too  often,  the  scholar  errs  with  man 
kind  and  forfeits  his  privilege.  Let  us  see  him  in  his  school, 
and  consider  him  in  reference  to  the  main  influences  he 
receives.  ^ 

I.  The  first  in  time  and  first  in  importance  of  the  in-| 
.fluences  upon  the  mind~is  of  that' nature.    Every  day,  the/ 
sun;  and,  after  sunset,  night  and  her  stars.    Ever  the  winds* 
blow;  ever  the  grass-  grows.    Every  day,  men  and  women, 
conversing,  beholding  and  beholden.    The  scholar  is  he  of 
all  men  whom  this  spectacle  most  engages.    He  must  settle 
its  value  in  his  mind.    What  is  nature  to  him?    There  is) 
never  a  beginning,  there  is  never  an  end,  to  the  inexplicable] 
continuity  of  this  web  of  God,  but  always  circular  power  reJ 
turning  into  itself.    Therein  it   resembles  his  own  spirftf 
whose    beginning,    whose    ending,    he    never    can    find,— so 
entire,  so  boundless.    Far,  too,  as  her  splendors  shine,  system 
on  system  shooting  like  rays,  upward,  downward,  withou^ 
center,  without  circumference,— in  the  mass  and  in  the  par-l 
tide,  nature  hastens  to  render  account  of  herself  to  the  mind.  [ 
Classification  begins.    To  the  young  mind,  every  thing  ^4 
individuals,  stands  by  itself.    By  and  by,  it  finds  how  to 
join  two  things,  and  see  in  them  one  nature;   then  three, 
then  three  thousand;   and  so,  tyrannized  over  by  its  own» 
unifybg  instinct,  it  goes  on  tying  things  together,  dimin- 
shing  anomalies,  discovering  roots  running  under  ground, 
whereby  contrary  and  remote  things  cohere,  and  flower  out 
Tom  one  stem.    It  presently  learns,  that,  since  the  dawn  of 
listory,  there  has  been  a  constant  accumulation  and  clas- 


290  THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR 

sifying  of  facts.  But  what  is  classification  but  the  per 
ceiving  that  these  objects  are  not  chaotic,  and  are  not  foreign, 
but  have  a  law  which  is  also  a  law  of  the  human  mind?  The 
astronomer  discovers  that  geometry,  a  pure  abstraction  of 
the  human  mind,  is  the  measure  of  planetary  motion.  The 
chemist  finds  proportions  and  intelligible  method  through 
out  matter;  and  science  is  nothing  but  the  finding  of  analogy, 
identity,  in  the  most  remote  parts.  The  ambitious  soul  sits 
down  before  each  refractory  fact;  one  after  another,  reduces 
all  strange  constitutions,  all  new  powers,  to  their  class  and 
their  law,  and  goes  on  for  ever  to  animate  the  last  fibre  of 
organization,  the  outskirts  of  nature,  by  insight. 

Thus  to  him,  to  this  school-boy  under  the  bending  dome 
of  day,  is  suggested,  that  he  and  it  proceed  from  one  root; 
^one  is  leaf  and  one  is  flower;  relation,  sympathy,  stirring  in 
'  every  vein.    And  what  is  that  Root?    Is  not  that  the  soul 
:>of  his  soul? — A  thought  too  bold, — a  dream  too  wild.    Yet 
when  this  spiritual  light  shall  have  revealed  the  law  of  more 
earthly  natures, —  when  he  has  learned  to  worship  the  soul, 
and  to  see  that  the  natural  philosophy  that  now  is,  is  only 
the  first  gropings  of  its  gigantic  hand,  he  shall  look  forward 
to  an  ever  expanding  knowledge  as  to  a  becoming  creator. 
;He  shall  see,  that  nature  is  the  opposite  of  the  soul,  answer- 
jing  to  it  part  for  part.    One  is  seal,  and  one  is  print.    Its 
(beauty  is  the  beauty  of  his  own  mind.    Its  laws  are  the  laws 
Jbf  his  own  mind.     Nature  then  becomes  to  him  the  meas- 
We  of  his  attainments.    So  much  of  nature  as  he  is  ig 
norant  of,  so  much  of  his  own  mind  does  he  not  yet  possess. 
/And,  in  fine,  the  ancient  precept,  "Know  thyself,"  and  the 
(modern  precept,  "Study  nature,"  become  at  last  the  one 
maxim. 

C  II.  The  next  great  influence  into  the  spirit  of  the  scholar, 

A*3,  the  mind_jo^JheJPast,— in  whatever  form,  whether  of 

literature,  of  art,  of  institutions,  that  mind  is  inscribed. 

f*3qoks_ar_e  the  best  type  of  thejnfluence  of  the  past  and  per- 

\    haps  we  shall  get" aF"fEe~truth,— 1  earn  tne  amount  of  this 

\  influence  more   conveniently,— by   considering   their  value 

alone. 


THE  AMERICAN   SCHOLAR  291 

The  theory  of  books  is  noble.  The  scholar  of  the  first  age 
received  into  him  the,  world  around;  brooded  thereon;  gave 
it  the  new  arrangement  of  his  own  mind,  and  uttered  it 
again.  It  came-into  him,  life;  it  went  ovft  from  him,  truth. 
It  came  to  him,  short-lived  actions;  it  went  out  from  him, 
immortal  thoughts.  It  came  to  him,  business;  it  went  from 
him  poetry.  It  was  dead  fact;  now,  it  is  quick  thought.  It 
can  stand,  and  it  can  -go.  It  now  endures,  it  now  flies,  it 
now  inspires.  Precisely,  in  proportion  to  the  depth  of  mind 
from  which  it  issued,  so  high  does  it  soar,  so  long  does  it  sing, 

Or,  I  might  say,  it  depends  on  how  far  the  process  had 
gone,  of  transmuting  life  into  truth.    In  proportion  to  the  j 
completeness  of  the  distillation,  so  will  the  purity  and  im-j 
perishableness  of  the  product  be.    But  none  is  quite  per-j 
feet.    As  no  air-pump  can  by  any  means  make  a  perfect 
vacuum,  so  neither  can  any  artist  entirely  exclude  the  con 
ventional,  the  local,  the-  perishable,  from  his  book,  or  write 
a  book  of  pure  thought,  that  shall  be  as  efficient,  in  all 
respects,  to  a  remote"-  posterity,  as  to  contemporaries,  or 
rather  to  the  second  age.    Each  age,  it   is  found,  must\ 
write  its  own  books;  or  rather,  each  generation  for  the  next  I 
succeeding.    The  books  of  an  older  period  will  not  fit  this/ 

Yet  hence  arises  a  grave  mischief.  The  sacredness  which 
attaches  to  the  act  of  creation, — the  act  of  thought, — is 
transferred  to  the  record.  The  poet  chanting,  was  felt  to 
be  a  divine  man:  henceforth  the  chant  is  divine  also.  The 
writer  was;  a  just  and  wisejspirit;  henceforward  it  is  settled, 
the  book  is  perfect;  as  love  of  the  hero  corrupts  into  wor 
ship  of  his  statue.  Instantly,  the  book  becomes  noxious: 
the  guide  is  a  tyrant.  The  sluggish  and  perverted  mind  of 
the  multitude,  slow  to  open  to  the  incursions  of  Reason, 
having  once  so  opened,  having  once  received  this  book, 
stands  upon  it,  and  makes  an  outcry,  if  it  is  disparaged. 
Colleges  are  built  on  it.  Books  are  written  on  it  by  thinkers,  , 
not  by  Man  Thinking;  by  men  of  talent,  that  is,  who  start 
wrong,  who  set  out  from  accepted  dogmas,  not  from  their 
own  sight  of  principles.  Meek  young  men  grow  up  in 
libraries,  believing  it  their  duty  to  accept  the  views,  which 
Cicero,  which  Locke,  which  Bacon,  have  given,  forgetful 


292  THE  AMERICAN   SCHOLAR 

that  Cicero,  Locke  and  Bacon  were  only  young  men  in 
libraries,  when  they  wrote  these  books. 

f£  Hence,  instead  of  Man  Thinking,  we  have  the  bookworm. 
Hence,  the  book-learned  class,  who  value  books,  as  such; 
not  as  related  to  nature  and  the  human  constitution,  but 
as  making  a  sort  of  Third  Estate  with  the  world  and  the 
soul.  Hence,  the  restorers  of  readings,  the  emendators, 
the  bibliomaniacs  of  all  degrees. 
.  Books  are  the  best  of  things,  well  used ;  abused,  among  the 

X worst.  What  is  the  right  use?  What  is  the  one  end, 
which  all  means  go  to  effect?  They  are  for  nothing  but  to 
inspire.  I  had  better  never  see  a  book,  than  to  be  warped 
by  its  attraction  clean  out  of  my  own  orbit,  and  made  a 
satellite  instead  of  a  system.  The  one  thing  in  the  world,  of 
JK  value,  is  the  active  soul.  This  every  man  is  entitled  to; 
this  every  man  contains  within  him,  although,  in  almost 
all  men,  obstructed,  and  as  yet  unborn.  The  soul  active 
sees  absolute  truth;  and  utters  truth,  or  creates.  In  this 
action,  it  is  genius;  not  the  privilege  of  here  and  there  a 
favorite,  but  the  sound  estate  of  every  nan.  In  its  essence, 
it  is  progressive.  The  book,  the  college,  the  school  of  art, 
the  institution  of  any  kind,  stop  with  some  past  utterance 
of -genius.  This  is  good,  say  they, — let  us  hold  by  this. 
They  pin  me  down.  They  look  backward  and  not  forward. 
But  genius  looks  forward:  the  eyes  of  man  are  set  in  his 
forehead:  not  in  his  hindhead:  man  hopes:  genius  creates. 
Whatever  talents  may  be,  if  the  man  create  not,  the  pure 
efflux  of  the  Deity  is  not  his; — cinders  and  smoke  there  may 
be,  but  not  yet  flame.  There  are  creative  manners,  there 
are  creative  actions,  and  creative  words;  manners,  actions, 
words,  that  is,  indicative  of  no  custom  or  authority,  but 
springing  spontaneous  from  the  mind's  own  sense  of  good 
and  fair. 

On  the  other  part,  instead  of  being*  its  own  seer,  let  it 
receive  from  another  mind  its  truth,  though  it  were  in  tor 
rents  of  light,  without  periods  of  solitude,  inquest,  and  self- 
i  recovery,  and  a  fatal  disservice  is  done.    Genius  is  always 
'sufficiently  the  enemy  of  genius  by  over  influence.    The 
literature  of  every  nation  bear  me  witness.    The  English 


THE  AMERICAN   SCHOLAR  293 

dramatic  poets  have  Shakspearized  now  for  two  hundred 
years. 

Undoubtedly  there  is  a  right  way  of  reading,  so  it  be 
sternly  subordinated.    Man  Thinking  must  not  be  subdued 
by  his  instruments.    Books  are  for  the  scholar's  idle  timesH 
When  he  can  read  God  directly,  the  hour  is  too  precious  to! 
be   wasted  in   other   men's  transcripts   of   their   readings^ 
But  when  the  intervals  of  darkness  come,  as  come  they  musv 
when  the  sun  is  hid,  and  the  stars  withdraw  their  shining, 
— we  repair  to  the  lamps  which  were  kindled  by  their  ray, 
to  guide  our  steps  to  the  East  again,  where  the  dawn  is. 
We  hear,  thcvo  we  may  speak.    The  Arabian  proverb  says, 
"  A  fig  tree,  looking  on  a  fig  tree,  becometh  fruitful."  . 

It  is  remarkable,  the  character  of  the  pleasure  we  derive 
from  the  best  books.    They  impress  us  with  the  conviction,      v 
that  one  nature  wrote  and  the  same  reads.    We  read  trte 
verses  of  one  of  the  great  English  poets,  of  Chaucer,  of 
Marvell,  -of  Dry  den,  with  the  most  modem  joy, — with  a     J 
pleasure,  I  mean,  which  is  in  great  part  caused  by  the  ab-      ' 
straction  of  all  time  from  their  verses.    There  is  some  awe 
mixed  with  the  joy  of  our  surprise,  when  this  poet,  who  lived     £ 
in  some  past  world,  two  or  three  hundred  years  ago,  says      £ 
that  which  lies  close  to  my  own  soul,  that  which  I  also  had     g! 
wellnigh  thought  and  said.    But  for  the  evidence  thence     & 
afforded  to  the  philosophical  doctrine  of  the  identity  of 
all  minds,  we  should  suppose  some  preestablished  harmony, 
some  foresight  of  souls  that  were  to  be,  and  some  prepara 
tion  of  stores  for  their  future  wants,  like  the  fact  observed  in 
insects,  who  lay  up  food  before  death  for^the  young  grub 
lihey  shall  never  see. 

I  would  not  be  hurried  by  any  love  of  system,  by  any 
exaggeration  of  instincts,  to  underrate  the  Book.  We  all 
know,  that,  as  the  human  body  can  be  nourished  on  any 
food,  though  it  were  boiled  grass  and  the  broth  of  shoes, 
so  the  human  mind  can  be  fed  by  any  knowledge.  And 
great  and  heroic  men  have  existed,  who  had  almost  no  other 
information  than  by  the  printed  page.  I  only  would  say, 
that  it  .needs  a  strong  head  to  bear  that  diet.  £0ne  must  be 
*an  inventor  to  read  well  A  As  the  proverb  says,  "He  that  v 


294  THE  AMERICAN   SCHOLAR 

would  bring  home  the  wealth  of  the  Indies,  must  carry  out 
the  wealth  of  the  Indies."/  There  is  then  creative  reading  as 
well  as  creative  writing)  When  the  mind  is  braced  by  labor 
and  invention,  the  page  of  whatever  book  we  read  becomes 
luminous  with  manifold  allusion.  Every  sentence  is  doubly 
significant,  and  the  sense  of  our  author  is  as  broad  as  the 
world.  We  then  see,  what  is  always  true,  that,  as  the  seer's 
hour  of  vision  is  short  and  rare  among  heavy  days  and 
months,  so  is  its  record,  perchance,  the  least  part  of  his 
volume.  The  discerning  will  read,  in  his  Plato  or  Shaks- 
peare,  only  that  least  part,— only  the  authentic  utterances  of 
the  oracle; — all  the  rest  he  rejects,  were  it  never  so  many 
times  Plato's  and  Shakspeare's. 

Of  course,  there  is  a  portion  of  reading  quite  indispensable 

to  a  wise  man.    History  and  exact  science  he  must  learn 

by  laborious  reading.    Colleges,  in  like  manner,  have  their 

I  indispensable  office, — to  teach  elements.    But  they  can  only 

TV  highly  serve  us,  when  they  aim  not  to  drill,  but  to  create ; 
*  when  they  gather  from  far  every  ray  of  various  genius  to 

;  their  hospitable  halls,  and,  by  the  concentrated  fires,  set  the 
hearts  of  their  youth  on  flame.  Thought  and  knowledge  are 
natures  in  which  apparatus  and  pretension  avail  nothing. 
Gowns,  and  pecuniary  foundations,  though  of  towns  of  gold, 
can  never  countervail  the  least  sentence  or  syllable  of  wit. 
Forget  this,  and  our  American  colleges  will  recede  in  their 
public  importance,  whilst  they  grow  rich  every  year. 

/  III.  There  goes  in  the  world  a  notion,  that  the  scholar 
/should  be  a  recluse,  a  valetudinarian, — as  unfit  for  any 
VJiandiwork  or  public  labor,  as  a  penknife  for  an  axe.  The 
so-called  "practical  men"  sneer  at  speculative  men,  as  if, 
because  they  speculate  or  see,  they  could  do  nothing.  I  have 
heard  it  said  that  the  clergy, — who  are  always,  more  uni 
versally  than  any  other  class,  the  scholars  of  their  day, — 
are  addressed  as  women;  that  the  rough,  spontaneous  con 
versation  of  men  they  do  not  hear,  but  only  a  mincing  and 
diluted  speech.  They  are  often  virtually  disfranchised;  and, 
indeed,  there  are  advocates  for  their  celibacy.  As  far, as  this 
is  true  of  the  studious  classes,  it  is  not  just  and  wise. ^Action  , 


THE  AMERICAN   SCHOLAR  295 

/  is  with  the  scholar,  subordinate,  but  it  is  essential.    WithouA 
it,  he  is  not  yet" man.    Without  it,  thought  can  never  ripen  I 
into  truth.    Whilst  the  world  hangs  before  the  eye  as  a  * 
jcloud  of  beauty,  we  cannot  even  see  its  beauty.    Inaction 
is  cowardice,  butfihere  can  be  no  scholar  without  the  heroic 
mind.  \  The  preamble  of  thought,  the  transition  through 
which  it  passes  fromHhe  unconscious  to  the  conscious,  is 
action.    Only  so  much  do  I  know,  as  I  have  lived.    Instantly 
we  know  whose  words  are  loaded  with  life,  and  whose  not. 

The  world, — this  shadow  of  the  soul,  or  other  me,  lies 
wide  around.  Its  attractions  are  the  keys  which  unlock  my 
thoughts  and  make  me  acquainted  with  myself.  I  run  ea 
gerly  into  this  resounding  tumult.  I  grasp  the  hands  of  those 
next  me,  and  take  my  place  in  the  ring  to  suffer  and  to  work, 
taught  by  an  instinct,  that  so  shall  the  dumb  abyss  be  vocal 
with  speech.  I  pierce  its  order;  I  dissipate  its  fear;  I  dis 
pose  of  it  writhin  the  circuit  of  my  expanding  life.  So  much 
only  of  life  as  I  know  by  experience,  so  much  of  the  wilder 
ness  have  I  vanquished  and  planted,  or  so  far  have  I  ex 
tended  my  being,  my  dominion.  I  do  not  see  how  any  man 
can  afford,  for  the  sake  of  his  nerves  and  his  nap,  to  spare 
any  action  in  which  he  can  partake  It  is  pearls  and  rubies  to 
his  discourse.  Drudgery,  calamity,  exasperation,  want,  are  in 
structors  in  eloquence  and  wisdom.  The  true  scholar  grudges^ 
every  opportunity  of  action  past  by,  as  a  loss  of  power.  / 

It  is  the  raw  material  out  of  which  the  intellect  moulds ) 
her  splendid   products.    A  strange   process   too,   this,   by 
which  experience  is  converted  into  thought,  as  a  mulberry 
leaf  is  converted  into  satin.    The  manufacture  goes  for 
ward  at  all  hours. 

The  actions  and  events  of  our  childhood  and  youth,  are 
now  matters  of  calmest  observation.  They  lie  like  fair 
pictures  in  the  air.  Not  so  with  our  recent  actions, — with 
the  business  which  we  now  have  in  hand.  On  this  we  are 
quite  unable  to  speculate.  Our  affections  as  yet  circulate 
through  it.  We  no  more  feel  or  know  it,  than  we  feel  the 
feet,  or  the  hand,  or  the  brain  of  our  body.  The  new  deed 
is  yet  a  part  of  life, — remains  for  a  time  immersed  in  our 
unconscious  life.  In  some  contemplative  hour,  it  detaches 


296  THE  AMERICAN   SCHOLAR 

itself  from  the  life  like  a  ripe  fruit,  to  become  a  thought  of 
the  mind.  Instantly,  it  is  raised,  transfigured;  the  corrupti 
ble  has  put  on  incorruption.  Henceforth  it  is  an  object  of 
beauty,  however  base  its  origin  and  neighborhood.  Observe, 
too,  the  impossibility  of  antedating  this  act.  In  its  grub 
state,  it  cannot  fly,  it  cannot  shine,  it  is  a  dull  grub.  But 
suddenly,  without  observation,  the  selfsame  thing  unfurls 
beautiful  wings,  and  is  an  angel  of  wisdom.  So  is  there  no 
fact,  no  event  in  our  private  history,  which  shall  not,  sooner 
or  later,  lose  its  adhesive,  inert  form,  and  astonish  us  by 
soaring  from  our  body  into  the  empyrean.  Cradle  and  in 
fancy,  school  and  playground,  the  fear  of  boys,  and  dogs, 
and  ferules,  the  love  of  little  maids  and  berries,  and  many 
another  fact  that  once  filled  the  whole  sky,  are  gone  already; 
friend  and  relative,  profession  and  party,  town  and  country, 
nation  and  world,  must  also  soar  and  sing. 

fOf  course,  he  who  has  put  forth  his  total  strength  in  fit 
actions,  has  the  richest  return  of  wisdom.  I  will  not  shut 
myself  out  of  this  globe  of  action,  and  transplant  an  oak  into 
a  flower-pot,  there  to  hunger  and  pine ;  nor  trust  the  revenue 
of  some  single  faculty,  and  exhaust  one  vein  of  thought, 
much  like  those  Savoyards,  who,  getting  their  livelihood  by 
carving  shepherds,  shepherdesses,  and  smoking  Dutchmen, 
for  all  Europe,  went  out  one  day  to  the  mountain  to  find  stock, 
.and  discovered  that  they  had  whittled  up  the  last  of  their 
pine-trees.  Authors  we  have,  in  numbers,  who  have  writ 
ten  out  their  vein,  and  wrho,  moved  by  a  commendable 
prudence,  sail  for  Greece  or  Palestine,  follow  the  trapper 
into  the  prairie,  or  ramble  round  Algiers,  to  replenish  their 
merchantable  stock. 

If    If  it  were  only  for  a  vocabulary,  the  scholar  would  be 
I \covetous  of  action.    Life  is  our  dictionary.    Years  are  well 


spent  in  country  labors ;  in  town, — in  the  insight  into 


and  manufactures ;  in  frank  intercourse  with  many  me  n  and 

women;  in  science;  in  art;  to  the  one  end  of  mastering  in 

all  their  facts  a  language  by  which  to  illustrate  and  ei  ibody 

/four  perceptions^"'!  learn  immediately  from  any  speaker  how 

rcmuch  he  has  already  lived,  through  the  poverty  o^r  the 

^splendor  of  his  speech.    Life  lies  behind  us  as  the  fluarry 


rades 


THE  AMERICAN   SCHOLAR  297 

from  whence  we  get  tiles  and  copestones  for  the  masonry  oft 
to-day.    This  is  the  way  to  learn  grammar.    Colleges  and  Jv 
books  only  copy  the  language  which  the  field  and  the  work- , 
yard  made. 

But  the  final  value  of  action,  like  that  of  books,  and  better  «, 
than  books,  is,  that  it  is  a  resource.    That  great  principl^A 
of  Undulation  in  nature,  that  shows  itself  in  the  inspiring 
and  expiring  of  the  breath;  in  desire  and  satiety;  in  the  ebb 
and  flow  of  the  sea;  in  day  and  night;  in  heat  and  cold;  and 
as  yet  more  deeply  ingrained  in  ever^  atom  and  every  fluid,  '. 
is  known  to  us  under  the  name  of  Polarity, — these  "fits  of 
easy  transmission  and  reflection,"  as  Newton  called  them, 
are  the  law  of  nature  because  they  are  the  law  of  spirit. 

The  mind  now  thinks;  now  acts;  and  each  fit  reproduces  ^ 
the  other.  When  the  artist  has  exhausted  his  materials, ' 
when  the  fancy  no  longer  paints,  when  thoughts  are  no 
longer  apprehended,  and  books  are  a  weariness, — he  has 
always  the  resource  to  live.  Character  is  higher  than  intel-\\ 
lect.  Thinking  is  the  function.  Living  is  the  functionary.  f£ 
The  stream  retreaJL&-*tr1ts  source.  A  great  soul  will  be 
strong  to  live,  as  well  as  strong  to  think.  Does  he  lack 
organ  or  medium  to  impart  his  truths?  He  can  still  fall 
back  on  this  elemental  force  of  living  them.  This  is  a  total 
act.  Thinking  is  a  partial  act.  Let  the  grandeur  of  justice 
shine  in  his  affairs.  Let  the  beauty  of  affection  cheer  his 
lowly  roof.  Those  "far  from  fame,"  who  dwell  and  act  with 
him,  will  feel  the  force  of  his  constitution  in  the  doings  and 
passages  of  the  day  better  than  it  can  be  measured  by  any 
public  and  designed  display.  Time  shall  teach  him,  that 
the  scholar  loses  no  hour  which  the  man  lives.  Herein  he 
unfolds  the  sacred  germ  of  his  instinct,  screened  from  in 
fluence.  What  is  lost  in  seemliness  is  gained  in  strength. 
Not  out  of  those,  on  whom  systems  of  education  have  ex 
hausted  their  culture,  comes  the  helpful  giant  to  destroy  the 
old  or  to  build  the  new,  but  out  of  unhandselled  savage  nature"1, 
out  of  terrible  Druids  and  berserkirs,  come  at  last  Alfred 
and  Shakspeare. 

I  hear  therefore  with  joy  whatever  is  beginning  to  be  said  • 
of  the  dignity  and  necessity  of  labor  to  every  citizen.  There  is 


298  THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR 

virtue  yet  in  the  hoe  and  the  spade,  for  learned  as  well  as  for 
unlearned  hands.  And  labor  is  every  where  welcome;  always 
^we  are  invited  to  work;  only  be  this  limitation  observed, 
that  a  man  shall  not  for  the  sake  of  wider  activity  sacrifice 
any  opinion  to  the  popular  judgments  and  modes  of  action. 

I  I  have  now  spoken  of  the  education  of  the  scholar  by 
/  nature,  by  books,  and  by  action.  It  remains  to  say  some- 
N(  what  of  his  duties. 

/  They  "are" sucITas  become  Man  Thinking.  They  may  all 
/be  comprised  in  self-trust.  The  office. of  the  scholar  is  to 
/  cheer,  to  raise,  and  to  guide  men  by  showing  them  facts 
\  amidst  appearances.  He  plies  the  slow,  unhonored,  and  un 
paid  task  of  observation.  Flamsteed  and  Herschet,  in  their 
glazed  observatories,  may  catalogue  the  stars  with  the  praise 
of  all  men,  and,  the  results  being  splendid  and  useful,  honor 
is  sure.  But  he,  in  his  private  observatory,  cataloguing  ob 
scure  and  nebulous  stars  of  the  human  mind,  which  as  yet 
no  man  has  thought  of  as  such, — watching  days  and  months, 
'  sometimes,  for  a  few  facts;  correcting  still  his  old  records;  — 
must  relinquish  display  and  immediate  fame.  In  the  long  pe 
riod  of  his  preparation,  he  must  betray  often  an  ignorance  and 
shiftlessness  in  popular  arts,  incurring  the  disdain  of  the  able 
who  shoulder  him  aside.  Long  he  must  stammer  in  his 
speech;  often  forego  the  living  for  the  dead.  Worse  yet,  he 
must  accept, — how  often!  poverty  and  solitude.  For  the 
ease  and  pleasure  of  treading  the  old  road,  accepting  the 
fashions,  the  education,  the  religion  of  society,  he  takes  the 
cross  of  making  his  own,  and  of  course,  the  self-accusation, 
the  faint  heart,  the  frequent  uncertainty  and  loss  of  time, 
which  are  the  nettles  and  tangling  vines  in  the  way  of  the 
self-relying  and  self-directed;  and  the 'state  of  virtual  hos 
tility  in  which  he  seems  to  stand  to  society,  and  especially 
to  educated  society.  For  all  this  loss  and  scorn,  what  offset? 
[e  is  to  find  consolation  in  exercising  the  highest  functions 
/of  human  nature.  He  is  one,  who  raises  himself  from  private 
considerations,  and  breathes  and  lives  on  public  and  illustrious 
thoughts.  He  is  the  world's  eye.  He  is  the  world's  heart. 
He  is  to  resist  the  vulgar  prosperity  that  retrogrades  ever 


THE  AMERICAN   SCHOLAR  299 

to  barbarism,  by  preserving  and  communicating  heroic  senti 
ments,  noble  biographies,  melodious  verse,  and  the   con- 
.  elusions  of  history.    Whatsoever  oracles  the  human  heart, 
'I  in  all  emergencies,  in  all  solemn  hours,  has  uttered  as  its 
F  commentary  on  the  world  of  actions, — these  he  shall  receive 
and  impart.    And  whatsoever  new  verdict  Reason  from  her 
inviolable  seat  pronounces  on  the  passing  men  and  events  of 
to-day — this  he  shall  hear  and  promulgate. 

These  being  his  functions,  it  becomes  him  to  feel  all  con  A  - 
fidence Jnjnmself,  and  to  defeTliever  to  the~popular  cryy 
He~and  he  only _knows_thejvorld.  The  world  of  any  moment 
is  the  merest  appearance.  Some  great  decorum,  some 
fetish  of  a  government,  some  ephemeral  trade,  or  war,  or 
man,  is  cried  up  by  half  mankind  and  cried  down  by  the 
other  half,  as  if  all  depended  on  this  particular  up  or  down. 
The  odds  are  that  the  whole  question  is  not  worth  the 
poorest  thought  which  the  scholar  has  lost  in  listening  to 
the  controversy.  Let  him  not  quit  his  belief  that  a  popgun 
is  a  popgun,  though  the  ancient  and  honorable  of  the  earth 
affirm  it  to  be  the  crack  of  doom.  In  silence,  jnjftfiadmess. 
in  .sev^re-^fes^paetijDii^Jel^im  hoIH^^himselTjadd  ob 
servation  to  observation,  patient  oFneglecT,  patient  of  re 
proach;  and  bide  his  own  time, — ha^py_ejioug3i^if  .he  can 
satisfy  hjmseJlalone,._that  this  day  he  .has _seen_sometbing 
truly.  Success  treads  on  every  right  step.  For  the  instinct 
is  sure,  that  prompts  him  to  tell  his  brother  what  he  thinks. 
He  then  learns,  that  in  going  down  into  the  secrets  of  hisV 
own  mind,  he  has  descended  into  the  secrets  of  all  minds.x 
He  learns  that  he  who  has  mastered  any  law  in  his  private 
thoughts,  is  master  to  that  extent  of  all  men  whose  language 
he  speaks,  and  of  all  into  whose  language  his  own  can  be 
translated.  The  poet,  in  utter  solitude  remembering  his 
spontaneous  thoughts  and  recording  them,  is  found  to  have 
recorded  that,  which  men  in  crowded  cities  find  true  for  them 
also.  The  orator  distrusts  at  first  the  fitness  of  his  frank 
confessions, — his  want  of  knowledge  of  the  persons  he  ad 
dresses, — until  he  finds  that  he  is  the  complement  of  his 
hearers; — that  they  drink  his  words  because  he  fulfils  for 
them  their  own  nature;  the  deeper  he  dives  into  his  privatest 


300  THE  AMERICAN   SCHOLAR 

secretest  presentiment,  to  his  wonder  he  finds,  this  is  the 
most  acceptable,  most  public,  and  universally  true.  The 
people  delight  in  it;  the  better  part  of  every  man  feels,  Tl 
is  my  music;  this  is  myself. 

in  self-trust,  _  all  the  virtues_are  ...comprehended.  Frej 
should  the  scholar  be, — free  and  brave.  Free  even  to  th| 
[definition  of  freedom,  "without  any  hindrance  that  do^  nc 
arise  out  of  his  own  constitution."  Brave;  for  fear  is  a 
•thing,  which  a  scholar  by  his  very  function  puts  behind  him. 
Fear  always  springs  from  ignorance.  It  is  a  shame  to  him 
if  his  tranquillity,  amid  dangerous  times,  arise  from  the 
presumption,  that,  like  children  and  women,  his  is  a  pro 
tected  class;  or  if  he  seek  a  temporary  peace  by  the  diversion 
of  his  thoughts  from  politics  or  vexed  questions,  hiding  his 
head  like  an  ostrich  in  the  flowering  bushes,  peeping  into 
microscopes,  and  turning  rhymes,  as  a  boy  whistles  to  keep 
his  courage  up.  So  is  the  danger  a  danger  still;  so  is  the  fear 
worse.  Manlike  let  him  turn  and  face  it.  Let  him  look 
into  its  eye  and  search  its  nature,  inspect  its  origin, — see  the 
whelping  of  this  lion,  which  lies  no  great  way  back;  he  will 
then  find  in  himself  a  perfect  comprehension  of  its  nature 
and  extent;  he  will  have  made  his  hands  meet  on  the  other 
side,  and  can  henceforth  defy  it,  and  pass  on  superior.  The 
world  is  his,  who  can  see  through  its  pretension.What  deaf 
ness,  what  stone-blind  custom,  what  overgrown  error  you  be 
hold,  is  there  only  by  sufferance, — by  your  sufferance.  See  it 
to  be  a  lie,  and  you  have  already  dealt  it  its  mortal  blow. 

Yes,  we  are  the^  cowed, — we  the  trustless.  It  is  a  mischie 
vous  notion  thaJt  we  are  come  late  into  nature;  that  the 
world  was  finished  a  long  time  ago.  As  the  world  was  plastic 
and  fluid  in  the  hands  of  God,  so  it  is  ever  to  so  much  of  his 
attributes  as  we  bring  to  it.-  To  ignorance  and  sin,  it  is 
flint.  They  adapt  themselves  to  it  as  they  may;  but  in 
proportion  as  a  man  has  any  thing  in  him  divine,  the  firma 
ment  flows  before  him  and  takes  his  signet  and  form.  Not 
he  is  great  who  can  alter  matter,  but  he  who  can  alter  my 
state  of  mind.  They  are  the  kings  of  the  world  who  give 
the  color  of  their  present  thought  t )  all  nature  and  all  art, 
and  persuade  men  by  the  cheerful  serenity  of  their  carrying 


THE  AMERICAN   SCHOLAR  301 

the  matter,  that  this  thing  which  they  do,  is  the  apple  which 
ages  have  desired  to  pluck,  now  at  last  ripe,  and  inviting 
to  the  harvest.  The  great  man  makes  the  great 
Wherever  Macdonald  sits,  there  is  the  head  'of  the 
Linnaeus  makes  botany  the  most  alluring  of  studies, 
wins  it  from  the  farmer  and  the  herd-woman;  Davy, 
listry;  and  Cuvier,  fossils.  The  day  is  always  his,  who 
in  itf-  with  s°rpTiit-y  p^d  ,gl£at  aims.  The  unstable 
estimates  of  men  crowd  to  him  whose  mind  is  filled  with  a 
truth,  as  the  heaped  waves  of  the  Atlantic  follow  the  moon. 
For  this  self-trust,  the  reason  is  deeper  than  can  be 
fathomed, — darker  than  can  be  enlightened.  I  might  not 
carry  with  me  the  feeling  of  my  audience  in  stating  my  own 
belief.  But  I  have  already  shown  the  ground  of  my  hope, 
in  adverting  to  the  doctrine  that  man  is  one.  I  believe  man 
has  been  wronged;  he  has  wronged  himself.  He  has  almost 
lost  the  light,  that  can  lead  him  back  to  his  prerogatives. 
Men  are  become  of  no  account.  Men  in  history,  men  in  the 
world  of  to-day  are  bugs,  are  spawn,  and  are  called  "the 
mass"  and  "the  herd."  In  a  century,  in  a  millennium,  one 
or  two  men;  that  is  to  say, — one  or  two  approximations  to 
the  right  state  of  every  man.  All  the  rest  behold  in  the 
hero  or  the  poet  their  own  green  and  crude  being, — ripened, 
yes,  and  are  content  to  be  less,  so  that  may  attain  to  its  full 
stature.  What  a  testimony, — full  of  grandeur,  full  of  pity, 
is  borne  to  the  demands  of  his  own  nature,  by  the  poor  clans 
man,  the  poor  partisan,  who  rejoices  in  the  glory  of  his  chief. 
The  poor  and  the  low  find  some  amends  to  their  immense 
moral  capacity,  for  their  acquiescence  in  a  political  and 
social  inferiority.  They  are  content  to  be  brushed  like  flies 
from  the  path  of  a  great  person,  so  that  justice  shall  be 
done  by  him  to  that  common  nature  which  it  is  the  dearest 
desire  of  all  to  see  enlarged  and  glorified.  They  sun  them 
selves  in  the  great  man's  light,  and  feel  it  to  be  their  own 
element.  They  cast  the  dignity  of  man  from  their  down- 
trod  selves  upon  the  shoulders  of  a  hero,  and  will  perish  to 
add  one  drop  of  blood  to  make  that  great  heart  beat,  those 
giant  sinews  combat  and  conquer.  He  lives  for  us,  and  we 
live  in  him. 


i 


302  THE  AMERICAN   SCHOLAR 

Men  such  as  they  are,  very  naturally  seek  money  or 
power;  and  power  because  it  is  as  good  as  money, — J 
"spoils,"  so  called,  "of  office."  And  why  not?  for  the 
pire  to  the  highest,  and  this,  in  their  sleep-walking, 
dream  is  highest.  Wake  them,  and  they  shall  quit  the 
good,  and  leap  to  the  true,  and  leave  governments  to  c 
and  desks.  This  revolution  is  to  be  wrought  by  the  grac 
domestication  of  the  idea  of  Culture.  The  main  enterprise 
of  the  world  for  splendor,  for  extent,  is  the  upbuilding  of  a 
man.  Here  are  the  materials  strown  along  the  ground.  The 
private  life  of  one  man  shall  be  a  more  illustrious  monarchy, 
— more  formidable  to  its  enemy,  more  sweet  and  serene  in 
its  influence  to  its  friend,  than  any  kingdom  in  history.  For 
a  man,  rightly  viewed,  comprehendeth  the  particular  natures, 
of  all  men.  Each  philosopher,  each  bard,  each  actor,  has 
only  done  for  me,  as  by  a  delegate,  what  one  day  I  can  do  for 
myself.  The  books  which  once  we  valued  more  than  the 
apple  of  the  eye,  we  have  quite  exhausted.  What  is  that 
but  saying,  that  we  have  come  up  with  the  point  of  view 
which  the  universal  mind  took  through  the  eyes  of  one 
scribe;  we  have  been  that  man,  and  have  passed  on.  First, 
one;  then,  another;  we  drain  all  cisterns,  and  waxing 
greater  by  all  these  supplies,  we  crave  a  better  and  more 
abundant  food.  The  man  has  never  lived  that  can  feed 
us  ever.  The  human  mind  cannot  be  enshrined  in  a  person, 
who  shall  set  a  barrier  on  any  one  side  to  this  unbounded, 
unboundable  empire.  It  is  one  central  fire,  which,  flaming 
now  out  of  the  lips  of  Etna,  lightens  the  capes  of  Sicily;  and, 
now  out  of  the  throat  of  Vesuvius,  illuminates  the  towers  and 
vineyards  of  Naples.  It  is  one  light  which  beams  out  of  a 
thousand  stars.  It  is  one  soul  which  animates  all  men. 

But  I  have  dwelt  perhaps  tediously  upon  this  abstraction 
of  the  Scholar.  I  ought  not  to  delay  longer  to  add  what  I 
have  to  say,  of  nearer  reference  to  the  time  and  to  this  coun 
try. 

Historically,  there  is  thought  to  be  a  difference  in  the 
ideas  which  predominate  over  successive  epochs,  and  there 
are  data  for  marking  the  genius  of  the  Classic,  of  the  Ro- 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR  305 

mantic,  and  now  of  the  Reflective  or  Philosophical  age.' 
With  the  views  I  have  intimated  of  the  oneness  or  the  identity 
of  the  mind  through  all  individuals,  I  do  not  much  dwell  on 
these  differences.    In  fact,  I  believe  each  individual  passes  / 
through  all  three.    The  boy  is  a  Greek;  the  youth,  romantic;  / 
the  adult,  reflective.    I  deny  not,  however,  that  a  revolution  / 
i^the  leading  idea  may  be  distinctly  enough  traced. 

Our  age  is  bewailed  as  the  age  of  Introversion.  Must 
that  needs  be  evil?  We,  it  seems,  are  critical;  we  are  em 
barrassed  with  second  thoughts;  we  cannot  enjoy  anything 
for  hankering  to  know  whereof  the  pleasure  consists;  we  are 
-lined  with  eyes;  we  see  with  our  feet;  the  time  is  infected 
with  Hamlet's  unhappiness, — 

"Sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought." 

Is  it  so  bad  then?    Sight  is  the  last  thing  to  be  pitied. 
Would  we  be  blind?    Do  we  fear  lest  we  should  outsee 
nature  and  God,  and  drink  truth  dry  ?  JUook  upon  the  jiis- 
content  of  the  literary  class,  as  a  mere  announcement  of 
the  fact;"  trTat-tiie~ylmcr  thems"elves  noTTn  the  state  of  mind 
of  their  fathers,  aM-regret-^e  TOming  state  as  untried;  as 
a  boy  dreads  the  waTeT~befofe  he  has  learned  that  he  can  . 
swim.    If  there  is  any  period  one  would  desire  to  be  born  in,  ' 
—is  it  not  the  age  of  Revolution;  when  the  old  and  the  new' 
stand  side  by  side,  and  admit  of  being  compared;  when  the  • 
energies  of  all  men  are  searched  by  fear  and  by  hope;  when  • 
the  historic  glories  of  the  old  can  be  compensated  by  the 
rich  possibilities  of  the  new  era?    This  time,  like  all  times, 
is  a  very  good  one,  if  we  but  know  what  to  do  with  it. 

I  read  with  joy  some  of  the  auspicious  signs  of  the  coming 
days,  as  they  glimmer  already  through  poetry  and  art, 
through  philosophy  and  science,  through  church  and  state. 

One  of  these  signs  is  the  fact,  that  the  same  movement 
which  effected  the  elevation  of  what  was  called  the  lowest 
class  in  the  state,  assumed  in  literature  a  very  marked  and 
as  benign  an  aspect.  Instead  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful; 
the  near,  the  low,  the  common,  was  explored  and  poetized. 
That,  which  had  been  negligently  trodden  under  foot  by 
those  who  were  harnessing  and  provisioning  themselves  for 


3054  THE  AMERICAN   SCHOLAR 

long  journeys  into  far  countries,  is  suddenly  found  to  be 
richer  than  all  foreign  parts.    The  literature  of  the  poor, 
C*  the  feelings  of  the  child,  the  philosophy  of  the  street,  the 
j    meaning  of  household  life,  are  the  topics  of  the  time.    It  is 
1    a  great  stride.    It  is  a  sign — is  it  not?  of  new  vigor,  wh^i 
'    the  extremities  are  made  active,  when  currents  of  warm  life 
j    run  into  the  hands  and  the  feet.    I  ask  not  for  the  gregk, 
[    the  remote,  the  romantic;  what  is  doing  in  Italy  or  Arabia; 
what  is  Greek  art,  or  Provengal  minstrelsy;  I  embrace  the 
v   common,  I  explore  and  sit  at  the  feet  of  thejamnjar]"trie  low. 
Give  me  insight  into  to-day,  and  you  may  have  the  antique 
OimJ'fti-toe^w^d-dsr  —What  "wcJuld  we  really  know  the  meaning 
(   of?    The  meal  in  the  firkin;  the  milk  in  the  pan;  the  ballad 
"^  in  the  street;  the  news  of  the  boat;  the  glance  of  the  eye; 
^  the  form  and  the  gait  of  the  body; — show  me  the  ultimate 
i  reason  of  these  matters;  show  me  the  sublime  presence  of 
the  highest  spiritual  cause  lurking,  as  always  it  does  lurk, 
in  these  suburbs  and  extremities  of  nature;,  let  me  see  every 
trifle  bristling  with  the  polarity  that  ranges  it  instantly  on 
an  eternal  law;  and  the  shop,  the  plough,  and  the  ledger, 
iferred  to  the  like  cause  by  which  light  undulates  and  poets 
sing; — and  the  world  lies  no  longer  a  dull  miscellany  and 
lumber-room,  but  has  form  and  order;   there  is  no  trifle; 

1    there  is  no  puzzle;  but  one  design  unites  and  animates  the 
farthest  pinnacle  and  the  lowest  trench. 
,  This  idea  has  inspired  the  genius  of  Goldsmith,  Burns, 
Cowper,  and,  in  a  newer  time,  of  Goethe,  Wordsworth,  and 
Carlyle.    This  idea  they  have  differently  followed  and  with 
various  success.    In  contrast  with  their  writing,  the  style  of 
Pope,  of  Johnson,  of  Gibbon,  looks  cold  and  pedantic.    This 
.  /  writing  is  blood-warm.    ManjsjuipHse.d.to  find  that  things 
•    near  are  not  less  j)eautiful_and  wondrous  than  things  remote. 
v  TKeinesf"  explains  the  far.  "The  drop  is  a  small  ocean.  J±. 
rnaji  is  related,  tO-.ajinature.    This  perception  of  the  worth 
of  the^vuIgaTis  fruitTuTin  discoveries.    Goethe,  in  this  very 
thing  the  most  modern  of  the  moderns,  has  shown  us,  as  none 
ever  did,  the  genius  of  the  ancients. 

There  is  one  man  of  genius,  who  has  done  much  for  this 
philosophy  of  life,  whose  literary  value  has  never  yet  been 


THE  AMERICAN   SCHOLAR  305 

rightly  estimated; — I  mean  Enia^uei_Swedenb£iEg.  The  most 
imaginative  of  men,  yet  writing  with  the  precision  of  a  mathe 
matician,  he  endeavored  to  engraft  a  purely  philosophical 
Ethics  on  the  popular  Christianity  of  his  time.  Such  an 
attempt,  of  course,  must  have  difficulty,  which  no  genius 
could  surmount.  But  he  saw  and  showed  the  connection  j 
between  nature  and  the  affections  of  the  soul.  He  pierced  ! 
the  emblematic  or  spiritual  character  of  the  visible,  audible, 
tangible  world.  Especially  did  his  shade-loving  muse  hover 
over  and  interpret  the  lower  parts  of  nature;  he  showed  the 
mysterious  bond  that  allies  moral  evil  to  the  foul  material 
forms,  and  has  given  in  epical  parables  a  theory  of  insanity, 
of  beast,  of  unclean  and  fearful  things. 

Another  sign  of  our  times,  also  marked  by  an  analogous 
political  movement,  is,  the  new  importance  given  to  the 
single  person.  Everything  that  tends  to  insulate  the  indi 
vidual, — to  surround  him  with  barriers  of  natural  respect, 
so  that  each  man  shall  feel  the  world  is  his,  and  man  shall 
treat  with  man  as  a  sovereign  state  with  a  sovereign  state, — 
tends  to  true  union  as  well  as  greatness.  "I  learned,"  said 
the  melancholy  Pestalozzi,  "that  no  man  in  God's  wide 
earth  is  either  willing  or  able  to  help  any  other  man."  Help 
must  come  from  the  bosom  alone.  The  scholar  is  that  mam/ 
who  must  take  up  into  himself  all  the  ability  of  the  time,  all  I 
the  contributions  of  the  past,  all  the  hopes  of  the  future.  He' 
must  be  an  university  of  knowledges.  If  there  be  one  lessor^ 
more  than  another,  which  should  pierce  his  ear,  it  is,  The 
world  is  nothing,  the  man  is  all;  in  yourself  is  the  law  of  all 
nature,  and  you  know  not  yet  how  a  globule  of  sap  ascends; 
in  yourself  slumbers  the  whole  of  Reason;  it  is  for  you  to 
know  all,  it  is  for  you  to  dare  all.  Mr.  President  and  Gentle-,/ 
men,  this  confidence  in  the  unsearched  might  of  man  belongs, 
by  all  motives,  by  all  prophecy,  by  all  preparation,  to  the 
American  Scholar.  We  have  listened  too  long  to  the  courtly 
muses  of  Europe.  The  spirit  of  the^  American  freeman  is 
already  suspected  to  be  timid,  imitative,  tame.  Public  and 
private  avarice  make  the  air  we  breathe  thick  and  fat.  The 
scholar  is  decent,  indolent,  complaisant.  See  already  the 
tragic  consequence.  The  mind  of  this  country,  taught  to 


306  THE  AMERICAN   SCHOLAR 

aim  at  low  objects,  eats  upon  itself.  There  is  no  work  for 
any  but  the  decorous  and  the  complaisant.  Young  men  of 
the  fairest  promise,  who  begin  life  upon  our  shores,  inflated 
by  the  mountain  winds,  shined  upon  by  all  the  stars  of  God, 
find  the  earth  below  not  in  unison  with  these, — but  are 
hindered  from  action  by  the  disgust  which  the  principles  on 
which  business  is  managed  inspire,  and  turn  drudges,  or  die 
of  disgust, — some  of  them  suicides.  What  is  the  remedy? 
They  did  not  yet  see,  and  thousands  of  young  men  as  hopeful 
now  crowding  to  the  barriers  for  the  career,  do  not  yet  see, 
yj  that,  if  the  single  man  plant  himself  indomitably  on  his 
II  instincts,  and  there  abide,  the  huge  world  will  come  round 
\jo  him.  Patience, — patience; — with  the  shades  of  all  the 
good  and  great  for  company;  and  for  solace,  the  perspective 
of  your  own  infinite  life;  and  for  work,  the  study  and  the 
communication  of  principles,  the  making  those  instincts 
prevalent,  the  conversion  of  the  world.  Is  it  not  the  chief 
disgrace  in  the  world,  not  to  be  an  unit; — not  to  be  reckoned 
one  character; — not  to  yield  that  peculiar  fruit  which  each 
man  was  created  to  bear,  but  to  be  reckoned  in  the  gross,  in 
the  hundred,  or  the  thousand,  of  the  party,  the  section,  to 
which  we  belong;  and  our  opinion  predicted  geographically, 
as  the  north,  or  the  south?  Not  so,  brothers,  and  friends, — 
please  God,  ours  shall  not  be  so.  We  will  walk  on  our  own 
feet;  we  will  work  with  our  own  hands;  we  will  speak  our 
own  minds.  -The  study  of  letters  shall  be  no  longer  a  name 
for  pity,  for  doubt,  and  for  sensual  indulgence.  The  dread 
of  man  and  the  love  of  man  shall  be  a  wall  of  defence  and  a 
/wreath  of  joy  around  all.  A  nation  of  men  will  for  the  first 
I  time  exist,  because  each  believes  himself  inspired  by  the 
I  Divine  Soul  which  also  inspires  all  men. 


XVI 

MAN  THE  REFORMER 

A  Lecture  read  before  the  Mechanics'  Apprentices'  Library 
Association,  Boston,  January  25,  1841 

MR.  PRESIDENT,  AND  GENTLEMEN, 

I  WISH  to  offer  to  your  consideration  some  thoughts  on 
the  particular  and  general  relations  of  man  as  a  reformer. 
I  shall  assume  that  the  aim  of  each  young  man  in  this  associ 
ation  is  the  very  highest  that  belongs  to  a  rational  mind. 
Let  it  be  granted,  that  our  life,  as  we  lead  it,  is  common  and 
mean;  that  some  of  those  offices  and  functions  for  which  we 
were  mainly  created  are  grown  so  rare  in  society,  that  the 
memory  of  them  is  only  keptjiliye  in  old  books  and  in  dim 
traditions;  that  prophets  and  poets,  that  beautiful  and 
perfect  men,  we  are  not  now,  no,  nor  have  even  seen  such; 
that  some  sources  of  human  instruction  are  almost  un 
named  and  unknown  among  us;  that  the  community  in 
which  we  live  wilfliafclly^  bear  to  be  told  that  every  man 
should  be  open  to  ecstasy  or  a  divine  illumination,  and  his 
dally  walk  elevated  by  intercourse  with  the  spiritual  world. 
Grant  all  this,  as  we  must,  yet  I  suppose  none  of  my  auditors 
will  deny  that  we  ought  to  seek  to  establish  ourselves  in 
such  disciplines  and  courses  as  will  deserve  that  guidance 
and  clearer  communication  with  the  spiritual  nature.  And 
further,  I  will  not  dissemble  my  hope,  that  each  person  whom 
I  address  has  felt  his  own  call  to  cast  aside  all  evil  customs, 
timidities,  and  limitations,  and  to  be  in  his  place  a  free  and 
helpful  man,  a  reformer,  a  benefactor,  not  content  to  slip 
along  through  the  world  like  a  footman  or  a  spy,  escaping 
by  his  nimbleness  and  apologies  as  many  knocks  as  he  can, 
but  a  brave  and  upright  man,  who  must  find  or  cut  a  straight 
road  to  everything  excellent  in  the  earth,  and  not  only  go 

307 


308  MAN  THE   REFORMER 

honorably  himself,  but  make  it  easier  for  all  who  follow  him, 
to  go  in  honor  and  with  benefit. 

In  the  history  of  the  world  the  doctrine  of  Reform  had 
never  such  scope  as  at  the  present  hour.  Lutherans,  Hern- 
hutters,  Jesuits,  Monks,  Quakers,  Knox,  Wesley,  Swedenborg, 
Bentham,  in  their  accusations  of  society,  all  respected  some 
thing, — church  or  state,  literature  or  history,  domestic 
usages,  the  market  town,  the  dinner  table,  coined  money. 
But  now  all  these  and  all  things  else  hear  the  trumpet,  and 
must  rush  to  judgment, — Christianity,  the  laws,  commerce, 
schools,  the  farm,  the  laboratory;  and  not  a  kingdom, 
town,  statute,  rite,  calling,  man,  or  woman,  but  is  threatened 
by  the  new  spirit. 

What  if  some  of  the  objections  whereby  our  institutions 
are  assailed  are  extreme  and  speculative,  and  the  reformers 
tend  to  idealism;  that  only  shows  the  extravagance  of  the 
abuses  which  have  driven  the  mind  into  the  opposite  ex 
treme.  It  is  when  your  facts  and  persons  grow  unreal  and 
fantastic  by  too  much  falsehood,  that  the  scholar  flies  for 
refuge  to  the  world  of  ideas,  and  aims  to  recruit  and  re 
plenish  nature  from  that  source.  Let  ideas  establish  their 
legitimate  sway  again  in  society,  let  life  be  fair  and  poetic, 
and  the  scholars  will  gladly  be  lovers,  citizens,  and  phil 
anthropists. 

It  will  afford  no  security  from  the  new  ideas,  that  the  old 
nations,  the  laws  of  centuries,  the  property  and  institutions 
of  a  hundred  cities,  are  built  on  other  foundations.  The 
demon  of  reform  has  a  secret  door  into  the  heart  of  every 
lawmaker,  of  every  inhabitant  of  every  city.  The  fact,  that 
a  new  thought  and  hope  have  dawned  in  your  breast,  should 
apprise  you  that  in  the  same  hour  a  new  light  broke,  in  upon 
a  thousand  private  hearts.  That  secret  which  you  would 
fain  keep, — as  soon  as  you  go  abroad,  lo!  there  is  one 
standing  on  the  doorstep,  to  tell  you  the  same.  There  is 
not  the  most  bronzed  and  sharpened  money-catcher,  who 
does  not,  to  your  consternation,  almost,  quail  and  shake 
the  moment  he  hears  a  question  prompted  by  the  new 
ideas.  We  thought  he  had  some  semblance  of  ground  to 
stand  upon,  that  such  as  he  at  least  would  die  hard;  but  he 


MAN   THE   REFORMER  309 

trembles  and  flees.  Then  the  scholar  says,  "Cities  and 
coaches  shall  never  impose  on  me  again;  for,  behold,  every 
solitary  dream  of  mine  is  rushing  to  fulfilment.  That  fancy 
I  had,  and  hesitated  to  utter  because  you  would  laugh, — 
the  broker,  the  attorney,  the  market-man  are  saying  the 
same  thing.  Had  I  waited  a  day  longer  to  speak,  I  had 
been  too  late.  Behold,  State  Street  thinks,  and  Wall  Street 
doubts,  and  begins  to  prophesy!" 

It  cannot  be  wondered  at,  that  this  general  inquest  into 
abuses  should  arise  in  the  bosom  of  society,  when  one  con 
siders  the  practical  impediments  that  stand  in  the  way  of 
virtuous  young  men.  The  young  man,  on  entering  life, 
finds  the  way  to  lucrative  employments  blocked  with  abuses. 
The  ways  of  trade  are  grown  selfish  to  the  borders  of  theft, 
and  supple  to  the  borders  (if  not  beyond  the  borders)  of 
fraud.  The  employments  of  commerce  are  not  intrinsically 
unfit  for  a  man,  or  less  genial  to  his  faculties,  but  these  are 
now  in  their  general  course  so  vitiated  by  derelictions  and 
abuses  at  which  all  connive,  that  it  requires  more  vigor  and 
resources  than  can  be  expected  of  every  young  man,  to  right 
himself  in  them ;  he  is  lost  in  them ;  he  cannot  move  hand  or 
foot  in  them.  Has  he  genius  and  virtue?  the  less  does  he 
find  them  fit  for  him  to  grow  in,  and  if  he  would  thrive  in 
them,  he  must  sacrifice  all  the  brilliant  dreams  of  boyhood 
and  youth  as  dreams;  he  must  forget  the  prayers  of  his 
childhood;  and  must  take  on  him  the  harness  of  routine 
and  obsequiousness.  If  not  so  minded,  nothing  is  left  him 
but  to  begin  the  world  anew,  as  he  does  who  puts  the  spade 
into  the  ground  for  food.  We  are  all  implicated,  of  course, 
in  this  charge;  it  is  only  necessary  to  ask  a  few  questions 
as  to  the  progress  of  the  articles  of  commerce  from  the  fields 
where  they  grew,  to  our  houses,  to  become  aware  that  we 
eat  and  drink  and  wear  perjury  and  fraud  in  a  hundred 
commodities.  How  many  articles  of  daily  consumption  are 
furnished  us  from  the  West  Indies;  yet  it  is  said,  that,  in 
the  Spanish  islands,  the  venality  of  the  officers  of  the  govern 
ment  has  passed  into  usage,  and  that  no  article  passes  into 
our  ships  which  has  not  been  fraudulently  cheapened.  Tn 
the  Spanish  islands,  every  agent  or  factor  o±  tne  Americans, 


310  MAN  THE  REFORMER 

unless  he  be  a  consul,  has  taken  oath  that  he  is  a  Catholic, 
or  has  caused  a  priest  to  make  that  declaration  for  him. 
The  abolitionist  has  shown  us  our  dreadful  debt  to  the 
Southern  negro.  In  the  island  of  Cuba,  in  addition  to  the 
ordinary  abominations  of  slavery,  it  appears,  only  men  are 
bought  for  the  plantations,  and  one  dies  in  ten  every  year, 
of  these  miserable  bachelors,  to  yield  us  sugar.  I  leave  for 
those  who  have  the  knowledge  the  part  of  sifting  the  oaths 
of  our  custom-houses;  I  will  not  inquire  into  the  oppression 
of  the  sailors;  I  will  not  pry  into  the  usages  of  our  retail 
trade.  I  content  myself  with  the  fact,  that  the  general 
system  of  our  trade,  (apart  from  the  blacker  traits  which, 
I  hope,  are  exceptions  denounced  and  unshared  by  all  repu 
table  men,)  is  a  system  of  selfishness;  is  not  dictated  by  the 
high  sentiments  of  human  nature;  is  not  measured  by  the 
exact  law  of  reciprocity;  much  less  by  the  sentiments  of  love 
and  heroism,  but  is  a  system  of  distrust,  of  concealment,  of 
superior  keenness,  not  of  giving  but  of  taking  advantage.  It 
is  not  that  which  a  man  delights  to  unlock  to  a  noble  friend; 
which  he  meditates  on  with  joy  and  self-approval  in  his  hour 
of  love  and  aspiration;  but  rather  what  he  then  puts  out  of 
sight,  only  showing  the  brilliant  result,  and  atoning  for  the 
manner  of  acquiring,  by  the  manner  of  expending  it.  I  do 
not  charge  the  merchant  or  the  manufacturer.  The  sins 
of  our  trade  belong  to  no  class,  to  no  individual.  One  plucks, 
one  distributes,  one  eats.  Every  body  partakes,  every  body 
confesses, — with  cap  and  knee  volunteers  his  confession,  yet 
none  feels  himself  accountable.  He  did  not  create  the  abuse; 
he  cannot  alter  it.  What  is  he?  an  obscure  private  person 
who  must  get  his  bread.  That  is  the  vice, — that  no  one  feels 
himself  called  to  act  for  man,  but  only  as  a  fraction  of  man. 
It  happens  therefore  that  all  such  ingenuous  souls  as  feel 
within  themselves  the  irrepressible  strivings  of  a  noble  aim, 
who  by  the  law  of  their  nature  must  act  simply,  find  these 
ways  of  trade  unfit  for  them,  and  they  come  forth  from  it. 
Such  cases  are  becoming  more  numerous  every  year. 

But  by  coming  out  of  trade  you  have  not  cleared  yourself. 
The  trail  of  the  serpent  reaches  into  all  the  lucrative  pro 
fessions  and  practices  of  man.  Each  has  its  own  wrongs. 


MAN   THE   REFORMER  311 

Each  finds  a  tender  and  very  intelligent  conscience  a  dis 
qualification  for  success.  ga£h_reguirgg  of  the  practitioner 
a  certain  shutting  of  the  eyes,  a  certain  dapperness  and 
compliance,  an  acceptance  of  customs,  a  sequestration  from 
the  sentiments  of  generosity  and  love,  a_compromise  of  . 
private  opinion  and  lofty  integrity.  Nay,  the  evil  custom 
reacEes  into  the  whole  institution  of  property,  until  our  laws 
which  establish  and  protect  it,  seem  not  to  be  the  issue  of 
love  and  reason,  but  of  selfishness.  Suppose  a  man  is  so- 
unhappy  as  to  be  born  a  saint,  with  keen  perceptions,  but 
with  the  conscience  and  love  of  an  angel,  and  he  is  to  get  his 
living  in  the  world;  he  finds  himself  excluded  from  all  lu 
crative  works;  he  has  no  farm,  and  he  cannot  get  one;  for, 
to  earn  money  enough  to  buy  one,  requires  a  sort  of  con 
centration  toward  money,  which  is  the  selling  himself  for  a 
number  of  years,  and  to  him  the  present  hour  is  as  sacred  ' 
and  inviolable  as  any  future  hour.  Of  course,  whilst  another 
man  has  no-  land,  my  title  to  mine,  your  title  to  yours,  is  at 
once  vitiated.  Inextricable  seem  to  be  the  twinings  and 
tendrils  of  this  evil,  and  we  all  involve  ourselves  in  it  the 
deeper  by  forming  connections,  by  wives  and  children,  by 
benefits  and  debts. 

Considerations  of  this  kind  have  turned  the  attention  of 
many  philanthropic  and  intelligent  persons  to  the  claims  of 
manual  labor,  as  a  part  of  the  education  of  every  young 
man.  If  the  accumulated  wealth  of  the  past  generation  is 
thus  tainted, — no  matter  how  much  of  it  is  offered  to  us, — 
we  must  begin  to  consider  if  it  were  not  the  nobler  part  to 
renounce  it,  and  to  put  ourselves  into  primary  relations  with 
the  soil  and  nature,  and  abstaining  from  whatever  is  dis 
honest  and  unclean,  to  take  each  of  us  bravely  his  part,  with 
his  own  hands,  in  the  manual  labor  of  the  world. 

But  it  is  said,  "What!  will  you  give  up  the  immense  ad 
vantages  reaped  from  the  division  of  labor,  and  set  every 
man  to  make  his  own  shoes,  bureau,  knife,  wagon,  sails,  and 
needle?  This  would  be  to  put  men  back  into  barbarism  by 
their  own  act."  I  see  no  instant  prospect  of  a  virtuous  rev 
olution;  yet  I  confess,  I  should  not  be  pained  at  a  change 
which  threatened  a  loss  of  some  of  the  luxuries  or  conven- 


312  MAN  THE  REFORMER 

iences  of  society,  if  it  proceeded  from  a  preference  of  the 
agricultural  life  out  of  the  belief,  that  our  primary  duties 
as  men  could  be  better  discharged  in  that  calling.  Who 
could  regret  to  see  a  high  conscience  and  a  purer  taste  ex 
ercising  a  sensible  effect  on  young  men  in  their  choice  of 
occupation,  and  thinning  the  ranks  of  competition  in  the 
labors  of  commerce,  of  law,  and  of  state?  It  is  easy  to  see 
that  the  inconvenience  would  last  but  a  short  time.  This 
would  be  great  action,  which  always  opens  the  eyes  of  men. 
When  many  persons  shall  have  done  this,  when  the  majority 
shall  admit  the  necessity  of  reform  in  all  these  institutions, 
their  abuses  will  be  redressed,  and  the  way  will  be  open  again 
to  the  advantages  which  arise  from  the  division  of  labor, 
and  a  man  may  select  the  fittest  employment  for  his 
peculiar  talent,  again,  without  compromise. 

But  quite  apart  from  the  emphasis  which  the  times  give 
to  the  doctrine,  that  the  manual  labor  of  society  ought  to 
be  shared  among  all  the  members,  there  are  reasons  proper 
to  every  individual,  why  he  should  not  be  deprived  of  it. 
The  USQ  of  manual  labor  is  one  which  never  grows  obsolete, 
and  which  is  inapplicable  to  no  person.  A  man  should  have 
a  farm  or  a  mechanical  craft  for  his  culture.  We  must  have 
a  basis  for  our  higher  accomplishments,  our  delicate  enter 
tainments  of  poetry  and  philosophy,  in  the  work  of  our 
hands.  We  must  have  an  antagonism  in  the  tough  world  for 
all  the  variety  of  our  spiritual  faculties,  or  they  will  not  be 
born.  Manual  labor  is  the  study  of  the  external  world. 
The  advantage  of  riches  remains  with  him  who  procured 
them,  not  with  the  heir.  When  I  go  into  my  garden  with  a 
spade,  and  dig  a  bed,  I  feel  such  an  exhilaration  and  health, 
that  I  discover  that  I  have  been  defrauding  myself  all  this 
time  in  letting  others  do  for  me  what  I  should  have  done 
with  my  own  hands.  But  not  only  health,  but  education  is 
in  the  work.  Is  it  possible  that  I  who  get  indefinite  quanti 
ties  of  sugar,  hominy,  cotton,  buckets,  crockery  ware,  and 
letter  paper,  by  simply  signing  my  name  once  in  three 
months  to  a  cheque  in  favor  of  John  Smith  and  Co.,  traders, 
get  the  fair  share  of  exercise  to  my  faculties  by  that  act, 
which  nature  intended  for  me  in  making  all  these  far- 


MAN   THE   REFORMER  313 

fetched  matters  important  to  my  comfort?  It  is  Smith 
himself,  and  his  carriers,  and  dealers,  and  manufacturers, 
it  is  the  sailor,  the  hidedrogher,  the  butcher,  the  negro,  the 
hunter,  and  the  planter,  who  have  intercepted  the  sugar  of 
the  sugar,  and  the  cotton  of  the  cotton.  They  have  got 
the  education,  I  only  the  commodity.  This  were  all  very 
well  if  I  were  necessarily  absent,  being  detained  by  work  of 
my  own,  like  theirs,  work  of  the  same  faculties;  then  should 
I  be  sure  of  my  hands  and  feet,  but  now  I  feel  some  shame 
before  my  wood-chopper,  my  ploughman,  and  my  cook,  for 
they  have  some  sort  of  self-sufficiency,  they  can  contrive 
without  my  aid  to  bring  the  day  and  year  round,  but  I 
depend  on  them,  and  have  not  earned  by  use  a  right  to  my 
arms  and  feet. 

Consider  further  the  difference  between  the  first  and 
second  owner  of  property.  Every  species  of  property  is 
preyed  on  by  its  own  enemies,  as  iron  by  rust;  timber  by 
rot;  cloth  by  moths;  provisions  by  mould,  putridity,  or 
vermin ;  money  by  thieves ;  an  orchard  by  insects ;  a  planted 
field  by  weeds  and  the  inroad  of  cattle;  a  stock  of  cattle  by 
hunger;  a  road  by  rain  and  frost;  a  bridge  by  freshets.  And 
whoever  takes  any  of  these  things  into  his  possession,  takes 
the  charge  of  defending  them  from  this  troop  of  enemies,  or 
of  keeping  them  in  repair.  A  man  who  supplies  his  own 
want,  who  builds  a  raft-  or  a  boat  to  go  a-fishing,  finds  it  easy 
to  caulk  it,  or  put  in  a  thole-pin,  or  mend  the  rudder.  What 
he  gets  only  as  fast  as  he  wants  for  his  own  ends,  does  not 
embarrass  him,  or  take  away  his  sleep  with  looking  after. 
But  when  he  comes  to  give  all  the  goods  he  has  year  after 
year  collected,  in  one  estate  to  his  son,  house,  orchard, 
ploughed  land,  cattle,  bridges,  hardware,  wooden-ware, 
carpets,  cloths,  provisions,  books,  money,  and  cannot  give 
him  the  skill  and  experience  which  made  or  collected  these, 
and  the  method  and  place  they  have  in  his  own  life,  the  son 
finds  his  hands  full, — not  to  use  these  things, — but  to  look 
after  them  and  defend  them  from  their  natural  enemies. 
To  him  they  are  not  means,  but  masters.  Their  enemies 
will  not  remit;  rust,  mould,  vermin,  rain,  sun,  freshet,  fire, 
all  seize  their  own,  fill  him  with  vexation,  and  he  is  con- 


314  MAN  THE   REFORMER 

verted  from  the  owner  into  a  watch-man  or  a  watch-dog  to 
this  magazine  of  old  and  new  chattels.  What  a  change! 
Instead  of  the  masterly  good  humor,  and  sense  of  power, 
and  fertility  of  resource  in  himself;  instead  of  those  strong 
and  learned  hands,  those  piercing  and  learned  eyes,  that 
supple  body,  and  that  mighty  and  prevailing  heart,  which 
the  father  had,  whom  nature  loved  and  feared,  whom  snow 
and  rain,  water  and  land,  beast  and  fish  seemed  all  to  know 
and  to  serve,  we  have  now  a  puny,  protected  person,  guarded 
by  walls  and  curtains,  stoves  and  down  beds,  coaches,  and 
men-servants  and  women-servants  from  the  earth  and  the 
sky,  and  who,  bred  to  depend  on  all  these,  is  made  anxious 
by  all  that  endangers  those  possessions,  and  is  forced  to 
spend  so  much  time  in  guarding  them,  that  he  has  quite 
lost  sight  of  their  original  use,  namely,  to  help  him  to  his 
ends, — to  the  prosecution  of  his  love;  to  the  helping  of  his 
friend,  to  the  worship  of  his  God,  to  the  enlargement  of  his 
knowledge,  to  the  serving  of  his  country,  to  the  indulgence 
of  his  sentiment,  and  he  is  now  what  is  called  a  rich  man, — 
the  menial  and  runner  of  his  riches. 

Hence  it  happens  that  the  whole  interest  of  history  lies 
in  the  fortunes  of  the  poor.  Knowledge,  Virtue,  Power  are 
the  victories  of  man  over  his  necessities,  his  march  to  the 
dominion  of  the  world.  Every  man  ought  to  have  this 
opportunity  to  conquer  the  world  for  himself.  Only  such 
persons  interest  us,  Spartans,  Romans,  Saracens,  English, 
Americans,  who  have  stood  in  the  jaws  of  need,  and  have 
by  their  own  wit  and  might  extricated  themselves,  and  made 
man  victorious. 

I  do  not  wish  to  overstate  this  doctrine  of  labor,  or  in 
sist  that  every  man  should  be  a  farmer,  any  more  than 
that  every  man  should  be  a  lexicographer.  In  general,  one 
may  say,  that  the  husbandman's  is  the  oldest,  and  most 
universal  profession,  and  that  where  a  man  does  not  yet 
discover  in  himself  any  fitness  for  one  work  more  than 
another,  this  may  be  preferred.  But  the  doctrine  of  the  Farm 
is  merely  this,  that  every  man  ought  to  stand  in  primary 
relations  with  the  work  of  the  world,  ought  to  do  it  himself, 
and  not  to  suffer  the  accident  of  his  having  a  purse  in  his 


MAN  THE   REFORMER  315 

pocket,  or  his  having  been  bred  to  some  dishonorable  and 
injurious  craft,  to  sever  him  from  those  duties;  and  for  this 
reason,  that  labor  is  God's  education;  that  he  only  is  a 
sincere  learner,  he  only  can  become  a  master,  who  learns  the 
secrets  of  labor,  and  who  by  real  cunning  extorts  from 
nature  its  sceptre. 

Neither  would  I  shut  my  ears  to  the  plea  of  the  learned 
professions,  of  the  poet,  the  priest,  the  lawgiver,  and  men 
of  study  generally;  namely,  that  in  the  experience  of  all 
men  of  that  class,  the  amount  of  manual  labor  which  is 
necessary  to  the  maintenance  of  a  family,  indisposes  and 
disqualifies  for  intellectual  exertion.  I  know,  it  often,  per 
haps  usually,  happens,  that  where  there  is  a  fine  organization 
apt  for  poetry  and  philosophy,  that  individual  finds  himself 
compelled  to  wait  on  his  thoughts,  to  waste  several  days 
that  he  may  enhance  and  glorify  one;  and  is  better  taught 
by  a  moderate  and  dainty  exercise,  such  as  rambling  in 
the  fields,  rowing,  skating,  hunting,  than  by  the  downright 
drudgery  of  the  farmer  and  the  smith.  I  would  not  quite 
forget  the  venerable  counsel  of  the  Egyptian  mysteries, 
which  declared  that  "there  were  two  pairs  of  eyes  in  man, 
and  it  is  requisite  that  the  pair  which  are  beneath  should  be 
closed,  when  the  pair  that  are  above  them  perceive,  and 
that  when  the  pair  above  are  closed,  those  which  are  beneath 
should  be  opened."  Yet  I  will  suggest  that  no  separation 
from  labor  can  be  without  some  loss  of  power  and  of  truth 
to  the  seer  himself;  that,  I  doubt  not,  the  faults  and  vices 
of  our  literature  and  philosophy,  their  too  great  fineness, 
effeminacy,  and  melancholy,  are  attributable  to  the  ener 
vated  and  sickly  habits  of  the  literary  class.  Better  that 
the  book  should  not  be  quite  so  good,  and  the  bookmaker 
abler  and  better,  and  not  himself  often  a  ludicrous  contrast 
to  all  that  he  has  written. 

But  granting  that  for  ends  so  sacred  and  dear,  some 
relaxation  must  be  had,  I  think,  that  if  a  man  find  in  himself 
any  strong  bias  to  poetry,  to  art,  to  the  contemplative  life, 
drawing  him  to  these  things  with  a  devotion  incompatible 
with  good  husbandry,  that  man  ought  to  reckon  early  with 
himself,  and,  respecting  the  compensations  of  the  Universe, 


316  MAN  THE   REFORMER 

ought  to  ransom  himself  from  the  duties  of  economy,  by  a 
certain  rigor  and  privation  in  his  habit.  For  privileges  so 
rare  and  grand,  let  him  not  stint  to  pay  a  great  tax.  Let 
him  be  a  csenobite,  a  pauper,  and  if  needs  be,  celibate  also. 
Let  him  learn  to  eat  his  meals  standing,  and  to  relish  the 
taste  of  fair  water  and  black  bread.  He  may  leave  to  others 
the  costly  conveniences  of  housekeeping,  and  large  hospi 
tality,  and  the  possession  of  works  of  art.  Let  him  feel  that 
genius  is  a  hospitality,  and  that  he  who  can  create  works  of 
art  needs  not  collect  them.  He  must  live  in  a  chamber,  and 
postpone  his  self-indulgence,  forewarned  and  forearmed 
against  that  frequent  misfortune  of  men  of  genius, — the  taste 
for  luxury.  This  is  the  tragedy  of  genius, — attempting  to 
drive  along  the  ecliptic  with  one  horse  of  the  heavens  and  one 
horse  of  the  earth,  there  is  only  discord  and  ruin  and  down 
fall  to  chariot  and  charioteer. 

The  duty  that  every  man  should  assume  his  own  vows, 
should  call  the  institutions  of  society  to  account,  and  examine 
their  fitness  to  him,  gains  in  emphasis,  if  we  look  at  our  modes 
of  living.  Is  our  housekeeping  sacred  and  honorable  ?  Does 
it  raise  and  inspire  us,  or  does  it  cripple  us  instead?  I  ought 
to  be  armed  by  every  part  and  function  of  my  household, 
by  all  my  social  function,  by  my  economy,  by  my  feastings, 
by  my  voting,  by  my  traffic.  Yet  I  am  almost  no  party 
to  any  of  these  things.  Custom  does  it  for  me,  gives  me  no 
power  therefrom,  and  runs  me  in  debt  to  boot.  We  spend 
our  incomes  for  paint  and  paper,  for  a  hundred  trifles,  I 
know  not  what,  and  not  for  the  things  of  a  man.  Our 
expense  is  almost  all  for  conformity.  It  is  for  cake  that  we 
run  in  debt;  't  is  not  the  intellect,  not  the  heart,  not  beauty, 
not  worship,  that  costs  so  much.  Why  needs  any  man 
be  rich?  Why  must  he  have  horses,  fine  garments,  hand 
some  apartments,  access  to  public  houses,  and  places  of 
amusement?  Only  for  want  of  thought.  Give  his  mind  a 
new  image,  and  he  flees  into  a  solitary  garden  or  garret  to 
enjoy  it,  and  is  richer  with  that  dream,  than  the  fee  of  a 
county  could  make  him.  But  we  are  first  thoughtless,  and 
then  find  that  we  are  moneyless.  We  are  first  sensual,  and 
then  must  be  rich.  We  dare  not  trust  our  wit  for  making 


MAN   THE   REFORMER  317 

our  house  pleasant  to  our  friend,  and  so  we  buy  ice-creams. 
He  is  accustomed  to  carpets,  and  we  have  not  sufficient 
character  to  put  floor-cloths  out  of  his  mind  whilst  he  stays 
in  the  house,  and  so  we  pile  the  floor  with  carpets.  Let 
the  house  rather  be  a  temple  of  the  Furies  of  Lacedasmon, 
formidable  and  holy  to  all,  which  none  but  a  Spartan  may 
enter  or  so  much  as  behold.  As  soon  as  there  is  faith,  as 
soon  as  there  is  society,  comfits  and  cushions  will  be  left 
to  slaves.  Expense  will  be  inventive  and  heroic.  We  shall 
eat  hard  and  lie  hard,  we  shall  dwell  like  the  ancient  Romans 
in  narrow  tenements,  whilst  our  public  edifices,  like  theirs, 
will  be  worthy  for  their  proportion  of  the  landscape  in 
which  we  set  them,  for  conversation,  for  art,  for  music,  for 
worship.  We  shall  be  rich  to  great  purposes;  poor  only 
for  selfish  ones. 

Now  what  help  for  these  evils?  How  can  the  man  who 
has  learned  but  one  art,  procure  all  the  conveniences  of  life 
honestly?  Shall  we  say  all  we  think ?— Perhaps  with  his 
own  hands.  Suppose  he  collects  or  makes  them  ill; — yet 
he  has  learned  their  lesson.  If  he  cannot  do  that.— Then 
perhaps  he  can  go  without.  Immense  wisdom  and  riches 
are  in  that.  It  is  better  to_gp_without,  than  to  have  them 
at  too  great  a  cost.  Let  us  learnUhe  meaning  of  economy. 
Economy  is  a  high,  humane  office,  a  sacrament,  when  its 
aim  is  grand ;  when  it  is  the  prudence  of  simple  tastes,  when 
it  is  practised  for  freedom,  or  love,  or  devotion.  Much  of 
the  economy  which  we  see  in  houses,  is  of  a  base  origin,  and 
is  best  kept  out  of  sight.  Parched  corn  eaten  to-day  that 
I  may  have  roast  fowl  to  my  dinner  on  Sunday,  is  a  base 
ness;  but  parched  corn  and  a  house  with  one  apartment, 
that  I  may  be  free  of  all  perturbations,  that  I  may  be 
serene  and  docile  to  what  the  mind  shall  speak,  and  girt 
and  road-ready  for  the  lowest  mission  of  knowledge  or 
goodwill,  is  frugality  for  gods  and  heroes. 

Can  we  not  learn  the  lesson  of  self-help?  Society  is 
full  of  infirm  people,  who  incessantly  summon  others  to 
serve  them.  They  contrive  everywhere  to  exhaust  for  their 
single  comfort  the  entire  means  and  appliances  of  that  luxury 
to  which  our  inventon  has  yet  attained.  Sofas,  ottomans, 


318  MAN   THE   REFORMER 

stoves,  wine,  game-fowl,  spices,  perfumes,  rides,  the  theatre, 
entertainments, — all  these  they  want,  they  need,  and  what 
ever  can  be  suggested  more  than  these,  they  crave  also,  as 
if  it  was  the  bread  which  should  keep  them  from  starving; 
and  if  they  miss  any  one,  they  represent  themselves  as  the 
most  wronged  and  most  wretched  persons  on  earth.  One 
must  have  been  born  and  bred  with  them  to  know  how  to 
prepare  a  'meal  for  their  learned  stomach.  Meantime,  they 
never  bestir  themselves  to  serve  another  person;  not  they! 
they  have  a  great  deal  more  to  do  for  themselves  than  they 
can  possibly  perform,  nor  do  they  once  perceive  the  cruel 
joke  of  their  lives,  but  the  more  odious  they  grow,  the 
sharper  is  the  tone  of  their  complaining  and  craving.  Can 
anything  be  so  elegant  as  to  have  few  wants  and  to  serve 
them  one's  self,  so  as  to  have  somewhat  left  to  give,  instead 
of  being  always  prompt  to  grab?  It  is  more  elegant  to 
answer  one's  own  needs,  than  to  be  richly  served;  inelegant 
perhaps  it  may  look  to-day,  and  to  a  few,  but  it  is  an  ele 
gance  forever  and  to  all. 

I  do  not  wish  to  be  absurd  and  pedantic  in  reform.  I 
do  not  wish  to  push  my  criticism  on  the  state  of  things 
around  me  to  that  extravagant  mark,  that  shall  compel 
me  to  suicide,  or  to  an  absolute  isolation  from  the  advantages 
of  civil  society.  If  we  suddenly  plant  our  foot,  and  say, — 
I  will  neither  eat  nor  drink  nor  wear  nor  touch  any  food 
or  fabric  which  I  do  not  know  to  be  innocent,  or  deal  with 
any  person  whose  whole  manner  of  life  is  not  clear  and 
rational,  we  shall  stand  still.  Whose  is  so?  Not  mine;  not 
thine;  not  his.  But  I  think  we  must  clear  ourselves  each 
one  by  the  interrogation,  whether  we  have  earned  our  bread 
to-day  by  the  hearty  contribution  of  our  energies  to  the 
common  benefit?  and  we  must  not  cease  to  tend  to  the 
correction  of  these  flagrant  wrongs,  by  laying  one  stone 
Bright  every  day. 

/  But  the  idea  which  now  begins  to  agitate  society  has  a 
wider  scope  than  our  daily  employments,  our  households, 
and  the  institutions  of  property.  We  are  to  revise  the 
whole  of  our  social  structure,  the  state,  the  school,  religion, 
marriage,  trade,  science,  and  explore  their  foundations  in 


MAN   THE   REFORMER  319 

our  own  nature;  we  are  to  see  that  the  world  not  only 
fitted  the  former  men,  but  fits  us,  and  to  clear  ourselves  of 
every  usage  which  has  not  its  roots  in  our  own  mind. 
What  is  a  man  born  for,  but  to  be  a  Reformer,  a  Re-maker 
of  what  man  has  made;  a  renouncer  of  lies;  a  restorer  of 
truth  and  good,  imitating  that  great  Nature  which  embosoms 
us  all,  and  which  sleeps  no  moment  on  an  old  past,  but 
every  hour  repairs  herself,  yielding  us  every  morning  a 
new  day,  and  with  every  pulsation  a  new  life?  Let  him 
renounce  everything  which  is  not  true  to  him,  and  put  all 
his  practices  back  on  their  first  thoughts,  and  do  nothing 
for  which  he  has  not  the  whole  world  for  his  reason.  If 
there  are  inconveniences,  and  what  is  called  ruin  in  the  way, 
because  we  have  so  enervated  and  maimed  ourselves,  yet 
it  would  be  like  dying  of  perfumes  to  sink  in  the  effort  to 
reattach  the  deeds  of  every  day  to  the  holy  and  mysterious 
recesses  of  life. 

The  power,  which  is  at  once  spring  and  regulator  in  all 
efforts  of  reform,  is  the  conviction  that  there  is  an  infinite 
worthiness  in  man  which  will  appear  at  the  call  of  worth, 
and  that  all  particular  reforms  are  the  removing  of  some 
impediment.  Is  it  not  the  highest  duty  that  man  should 
be  honored  in  us?  I  ought  not  to  allow  any  man,  because 
he  has  broad  lands,  to  feel  that  he  is  rich  in  my  presence. 
I  ought  to  make  him  feel  that  I  can  do  without  his  riches, 
that  I  cannot  be  bought, — neither  by  comfort,  neither  by 
pride, — and  though  I  be  utterly  penniless,  and  receiving 
bread  from  him,  that  he  is  the  poor  man  beside  me.  And 
if,  at  the  same  time,  a  woman  or  a  child  discovers  a  senti 
ment  of  piety,  or  a  juster  way  of  thinking  than  mine,  I 
ought  to  confess  it  by  my  respect  and  obedience,  though 
it  go  to  alter  my  whole  way  of  life. 

The  Americans  have  many  virtues,  but  they  have  not 
Faith  and  Hope.  I  know  no  two  words  whose  meaning  is 
more  lost  sight  of.  We  use  these  words  as  if  they  were  as 
obsolete  as  Selah  and  Amen.  And  yet  they  have  the  broad 
est  meaning,  and  the  most  cogent  application  to  Boston  in 
1841.  The  Americans  have  no  faith.  They  rely  on  the 
power  of  a  dollar;  they  are  deaf  to  a  sentiment.  They  think 


320  MAN  THE  REFORMER 

you  may  talk  the  north  wind  down  as  easily  as  raise  society; 
and  no  class  more  faithless  than  the  scholars  or  intellectual 
men.  Now  if  I  talk  with  a  sincere  wise  man,  and  my  friend, 
with  a  poet,  with  a  conscientious  youth  who  is  still  under 
the  dominion  of  his  own  wild  thoughts,  and  not  yet  har 
nessed  in  the  team  of  society  to  drag  with  us  all  in  the  ruts  of 
custom,  I  see  at  once  how  paltry  is  all  this  generation  of 
unbelievers,  and  what  a  house  of  cards  their  institutions  are, 
and  I  see  what  one  brave  man,  what  one  great  thought  ex 
ecuted  might  effect.  I  see  that  the  reason  of  the  distrust 
of  the  practical  man  in  all  theory,  is  his  inability  to  perceive 
the  means  whereby  we  work.  Look,  he  says,  at  the  tools 
with  which  this  world  of  yours  is  to  be  built.  As  we  cannot 
make  a  planet,  with  atmosphere,  rivers,  and  forests,  by 
means  of  iLie  best  carpenters'  or  engineers'  tools,  with 
chemist's  laboratory  and  smith's  forge  to  boot, — so  neither 
can  we  ever  construct  that  heavenly  society  you  prate  of, 
out  of  foolish,  sick,  selfish  men  and  women,  such  as  we  know 
them  to  be.  But  the  believer  not  only  beholds  his  heaven 
to  be  possible,  but  already  to  begin  to  exist, — not  by  the 
men  or  materials  the  statesman  uses,  but  by  men  trans 
figured  and  raised  above  themselves  by  the  power  of  prin 
ciples.  To  principles  something  else  is  possible  that  tran 
scends  all  the  power  of  expedients. 

Every  great  and  commanding  moment  in  the  annals  of 
the  world  is  the  triumph  of  some  enthusiasm.  The  victories 
of  the  Arabs  after  Mahomet,  who,  in  a  few  years,  from  a 
small  and  mean  beginning,  established  a  larger  empire  than 
that  of  Rome,  is  an  example.  They  did  they  knew  not  what. 
The  naked  Derar,  horsed  on  an  idea,  was  found  an  overmatch 
for  a  troop  of  Roman  cavalry.  The  women  fought  like  men, 
and  conquered  the  Roman  men.  They  were  miserably 
equipped,  miserably  fed.  They  were  Temperance  troops. 
There  was  neither  brandy  nor  flesh  needed  to  feed  them. 
They  conquered  Asia,  and  Africa,  and  Spain,  on  barley.  The 
Caliph  Omar's  walking  stick  struck  more  terror  into  those 
who  saw  it,  than  another  man's  sword.  His  diet  was  barley 
bread:  his  sauce  was  salt;  and  oftentimes  by  way  of  absti 
nence  he  ate  his  bread  without  salt.  His  drink  was  water. 


MAN  THE  REFORMER  321 

His  palace  was  built  of  mud;  and  when  he  left  Medina  to 
go  to  the  conquest  of  Jersualem,  he  rode  on  a  red  camel, 
with  a  wooden  platter  hanging  at  his  saddle,  with  a  bottle 
of  water  and  two  sacks,  one  holding  barley,  and  the  other 
dried  fruits.  / 

But  there  will  dawn  ere  long  on  our  politics,  on  our  modes 
of  living,  a  nobler  morning  than  that  Arabian  faith,  in  the 
sentiment  of  love.  This  is  the  one  remedy  for  all  ills,  the 
panacea  of  nature.  We  must  be  lovers,  and  at  once  the 
impossible  becomes  possible.  Our  age  and  history,  for 
these  thousand  years,  has  not  been  the  history  of  kindness, 
but  of  selfishness.  Our  distrust  is  very  expensive.  The 
money  we  spend  for  courts  and  prisons  is  very  ill  laid  out. 
We  make,  by  distrust,  the  thief,  and  burglar,  and  incendiary, 
and  by  our  court  and  jail  we  keep  him  so.  An  acceptance 
of  the  sentiment  of  love  throughout  Christendom  for  a 
season,  would  bring  the  felon  and  the  outcast  to  our  side  in 
tears,  with  the  devotion  of  his  faculties  to  our  service.  See 
this  wide  society  of  laboring  men  and  women.  We  allow 
ourseives  to  be  served  by  them,  we  live  apart  from  them,  and 
meet  them  without  a  salute  in  the  streets.  We  do  not  greet 
their  talents,  nor  rejoice  in  their  good  fortune,  nor  foster 
their  hopes,  nor  in  the  assembly  of  the  people  vote  for  what 
is  dear  to  them.  Thus  we  enact  the  part  of  the  selfish 
noble  and  king  from  the  foundation  of  the  world.  See,  this 
tree  always  bears  one  fruit.  In  every  household,  the  peace 
of  a  pair  is  poisoned  by  the  malice,  slyness,  indolence,  and 
alienation  of  domestics.  Let  any  two  matrons  meet,  and 
observe  how  soon  their  conversation  turns  on  the  troubles 
from  their  "help"  as  our  phrase  is.  In  every  knot  of  labor 
ers,  the  rich  man  does  not  feel  himself  among  his  friends, — 
and  at  the  polls  he  finds  them  arrayed  in  a  mass  in  distinct 
opposition  to  him.  We  complain  that  the  politics  of  masses 
of  the  people  are  controlled  by  designing  men,  and  led  in 
opposition  to  manifest  justice  and  the  common  weal,  and  to 
their  own  interest.  But  the  people  do  not  wish  to  be  repre 
sented  or  ruled  by  the  ignorant  and  base.  They  only  vote 
for  these,  because  they  were  asked  with  the  voice  and 
semblance  of  kindness.  They  will  not  vote  for  them  long 


322  MAN   THE   REFORMER 

They  inevitably  prefer  wit  and  probity.  To  use  an  Egyptian 
metaphor,  it  is  not  their  will  for  any  long  time  "to  raise 
the  nails  of  wild  beasts,  and  to  depress  the  heads  of  the 
sacred  birds."  Let  our  affection  flow  out  to  our  fellows; 
it  would  operate  in  a  day  the  greatest  of  all  revolutions. 
It  is  better  to  work  on  institutions  by  the  sun  than  by  the 
wind.  The  state  must  consider  the  poor  man,  and  all  voices 
must  speak  for  him.  Every  child  that  is  born  must  have  a 
just  chance  for  his  bread.  Let  the  amelioration  in  our  laws 
of  property  proceed  from  the  concession  of  the  rich,  not 
from  the  gra&ping  of  the  poor.  Let  us  begin  by  habitual 
imparting.  Let  us  understand  that  the  equitable  rule  is, 
that  no  one  should  take  more  than  his  share,  let  him  be  ever 
so  rich.  Let  me  feel  that  I  am  to  be  a  lover.  I  am  to  see 
to  it  that  the  world  is  the  better  for  me,  and  to  find  my 
reward  in  the  act.  Love  would  put  a  new  face  on  this 
weary  old  world  in  which  we  dwell  as  pagans  and  enemies 
too  long,  and  it  would  warm  the  -heart  to  see  how  fast  the 
vain  diplomacy  of  statesmen,  the  impotence  of  armies,  and 
navies,  and  lines  of  defence,  would  be  superseded  by  this 
unarmed  child.  Love  will  creep  where  it  cannot  go,  will 
accomplish  that  by  imperceptible  methods, — being  its  own 
lever,  fulcrum,  and  power, — which  force  could  never 
achieve.  Have  you  not  seen  in  the  woods,  in  a  late  autumn 
morning,  a  poor  fungus  or  mushroom, — a  plant  without  any 
solidity,  nay,  that  seemed  nothing  but  a  soft  mush  or  jelly, — 
by  its  constant,  total,  and  inconceivably  gentle  pushing, 
manage  to  break  its  way  up  through  the  frosty  ground, 
and  actually  to  lift  a  hard  crust  on  its  head?  It  is  the 
symbol  of  the  power  of  kindness.  The  virtue  of  this  prin 
ciple  in  human  society  in  application  to  great  interests  is 
obsolete  and  forgotten.  Once  or  twice  in  history  it  has  been 
tried  in  illustrious  instances,  with  signal  success.  This 
great,  overgrown,  dead  Christendom  of  ours  still  keeps  alive 
at  least  the  name  of  a  lover  of  mankind.  But  one  day  all 
men  will  be  lovers;  and  every  calamity  will  be  dissolved  in 
the  universal  sunshine. 

Will  you  suffer  me  to  add  one  trait  more  to  this  portrait 
of  man  the  reformer?    The  mediator  between  the  spiritual 


MAN   THE   REFORMER  323 

and  the  actual  world  should  have  a  great  prospective 
prudence.  An  Arabian  poet  describes  his  hero  by  saying, 

"Sunshine  was  he 
In  the  winter  day; 
And  in  the  midsummer 
Coolness  and  shade." 

He  who  would  help  himself  and  others,  should  not  be  a 
subject  of  irregular  and  interrupted  impulses  of  virtue,  but 
a  continent,  persisting,  immovable  person, — such  as  we  have 
seen  a  few  scattered  up  and  down  in  time  for  the  blessing 
of  the  world,  men  who  have  in  the  gravity  of  their  nature  a 
quality  which  answers  to  the  fly-wheel  in  a  mill,  which  dis 
tributes  the  motion  equably  over  all  the  wheels,  and  hinders 
it  from  falling  unequally  and  suddenly  in  destructive  shocks. 
It  is  better  that  joy  should  be  spread  over  all  the  day  in 
the  form  of  strength,  than  that  it  should  be  concentrated 
into  ecstasies,  full  of  danger  and  followed  by  reactions. 
There  is  a  sublime  prudence,  which  is  the  very  highest  that 
we  know  of  man,  which,  believing  in  a  vast  future, — sure  of 
more  to  come  than  is  yet  seen, — postpones  always  the  present 
hour  to  the  whole  life;  postpones  talent  to  genius,  and 
special  results  to  character.  As  the  merchant  gladly  takes 
money  from  his  income  to  add  to  his  capital,  so  is  the  great 
man  very  willing  to  lose  particular  powers  and  talents,  so 
that  he  gain  in  the  elevation  of  his  life.  The  opening  of 
the  spiritual  senses  disposes  men  ever  to  greater  sacrifices, 
to  leave  their  signal  talents,  their  best  means  and  skill  of 
procuring  a  present  success,  their  power  and  their  fame, — 
to  cast  all  things  behind,  in  the  insatiable  thirst  for  divine 
communications  A  purer  fame,  a  greater  power  rewards 
the  sacrifice.  It  is  the  conversion  of  our  harvest  into  seed. 
As  the  farmer  casts  into  the  ground  the  finest  ears  of  his 
grain,  the  time  will  come  when  we  too  shall  hold  nothing 
back,  but  shall  eagerly  convert  more  than  we  now  possess 
into  means  and  powers,  when  we  shall  be  willing  to  sow  the 
sun  and  the  moon  for  seeds. 


XVII 
THE  CONSERVATIVE 

A  Lecture  delivered  at  the  Masonic  Temple,  Boston, 
December  9,  1841 

THE  two  parties  which  divide  the  state,  the  party  of 
Conservatism  and  that  of  Innovation,  are  very  old,  and 
have  disputed  the  possession  of  the  world  ever  since  it  was 
made.  This  quarrel  is  the  subject  of  civil  history.  The 
conservative  party  established  the  reverend  hierarchies  and 
monarchies  of  the  most  ancient  world.  The  battle  of  pa 
trician  and  plebeian,  of  parent  state  and  colony,  of  old  usage 
and  accommodation  to  new  facts,  of  the  rich  and  the  poor 
reappears  in  all  countries  and  times.  The  war  rages  not 
only  in  battle-fields,  in  natural  councils,  and  ecclesiastical 
synods,  but  agitates  every  man's  bosom  with  opposing 
advantages  every  hour.  On  rolls  the  old  world  meantime 
and  now  one,  now  the  other  gets  the  day,  and  still  the  fight 
renews  itself  as  if  for  the  first  time,  under  new  names  and 
hot  personalities. 

Such  an  irreconcilable  antagonism,  of  course,  must  have 
a  correspondent  depth  of  seat  in  the  human  constitution.  It 
is  the  opposition  of  Past  and  Future,  of  Memory  and  Hope, 
of  the  Understanding  and  the  Reason.  It  is  the  primal 
antagonism,  the  appearance  in  trifles  of  the  two  poles  of 
nature. 

There  is  a  fragment  of  old  fable  which  seems  somehow  to 
have  been  dropped  from  the  current  mythologies,  which 
may  deserve  attention,  as  it  appears  to  relate  to  this 
subject. 

Saturn  grew  weary  of  sitting  alone,  or  with  none  but  the 
great  Uranus  or  Heaven  beholding  him,  and  he  created  an 
oyster.  Then  he  would  act  again,  but  he  made  nothing  more 
but x  went  on  creating  the  race  of  oysters.  Then  Uranus 
cried,  "A  new  work,  0  Saturn!  the  old  is  not  good  again." 

324 


THE  CONSERVATIVE  325 

Saturn  replied.  "I  fear.  There  is  not  only  the  alternative 
of  making  and  not  making,  but  also  of  unmaking.  Seest 
thou  the  great  sea,  how  it  ebbs  and  flows?  so  is  it  with  me; 
my  power  ebbs;  and  if  I  put  forth  my  hands,  I  shall  not  do, 
but  undo.  Therefore  I  do  what  I  have  done;  I  hold  what 
I  have  got;  and  so  I  resist  Night  and  Chaos." 

"0  Saturn,"  replied  Uranus,  "thou  canst  not  hold  thine 
own,  but  by  making  more.  Thy  oysters  are  barnacles  and 
cockles,  and  with  the  next  flowing  of  the  tide,  they  will  be 
pebbles  and  rea-foam." 

"I  see,"  rejoins  Saturn,  "thou  art  in  league  with  Night, 
thou  art  become  an  evil  eye;  thou  spakest  from  love;  now 
thy  words  smite  me  with  hatred.  I  appeal  to  Fate,  must 
there  not  be  rest?" — "I  appeal  to  Fate  also,"  said  Uranus, 
"must  there  not  be  motion?" — But  Saturn  was  silent,  and 
went  on  making  oysters  for  a  thousand  years. 

After  that,  the  word  of  Uranus  came  into  his  mind  like  a 
ray  of  the  sun,  and  he  made  Jupiter;  and  then  he  feared 
again;  and  nature  froze,  the  things  that  were  made  went 
backward,  and,  to  save  the  world,  Jupiter  slew  his  father 
Saturn. 

This  may  stand  for  the  earliest  account  of  a  conversation 
on  politics  between  a  Conservative  and  a  Radical,  which 
has  come  down  to  us.  It  is  ever  thus.  It  is  the  counter 
action  of  the  centripetal  and  the  centrifugal  forces.  In 
novation  is  the  salient  energy;  Conservatism  the"  pause  on 
the  last  movement.  "That  which  is  was  made  by  God," 
saith  Conservatism.  "He  is  leaving  that,  he  is  entering  this 
other;"  rejoins  Innovation. 

There  is  always  a  certain  meanness  in  the  argument  of  con 
servatism,  joined  with  a  certain  superiority  in  its  fact.  It 
affirms  because  it  holds.  Its  fingers  clutch  the  fact,  and  it 
will  not  open  its  eyes  to  see  a  better  fact.  The  castle,  which 
conservatism  is  set  to  defend,  is  the  actual  state  of  things, 
good  and  bad.  The  project  of  innovation  is  the  best  possible 
state  of  things.  Of  course,  conservatism  always  has  the 
worst  of  the  argument,  is  always  apologizing,  pleading  a 
necessity,  pleading  that  to  change  would  be  to  deteriorate ;  it 
must  saddle  itself  with  the  mountainous  load  of  violence 


326  THE   CONSERVATIVE 

and  vice  of  society,  must  deny  the  possibility  of  good,  deny 
ideas,  and  suspect  and  stone  the  prophet;  whilst  innovation 
is  always  in  the  right,  triumphant,  attacking,  and  sure  of 
final  success.  Conservatism  stands  on  man's  confessed 
limitations;  reform  on  his  indisputable  infinitude,  conserv 
atism  on  circumstance;  liberalism  on  power;  one  goes  to 
make  an  adroit  member  of  the  social  frame;  the  other  to 
postpone  all  things  to  the  man  himself;  conservatism  is 
debonair  and  social;  reform  is  individual  and  imperious 
We  are  reformers  in  spring  and  summer;  in  autumn  and 
winter,  we  stand  by  the  old;  reformers  in  the  morning,  con- 
servers  at  night.  Reform  is  affirmative,  conservatism  nega 
tive;  conservatism  goes  for  comfort,  reform  for  truth. 
Conservatism  is  more  candid  to  behold  another's  worth; 
reform  more  disposed  to  maintain  and  increase  its  own. 
Conservatism  makes  no  poetry,  breathes  no  prayer,  has  no 
invention;  it  is  all  memory.  Reform  has  no  gratitude,  no 
prudence,  no  husbandry.  It  makes  a  great  difference  to 
your  figure  and  to  your  thought,  whether  your  foot  is  ad 
vancing  or  receding.  Conservatism  never  puts  the  foot  for 
ward;  in  the  hour  when  it  does  that,  it  is  not  establishment, 
but  reform.  Conservatism  tends  to  universal  seeming  and 
treachery,  believes  in  a  negative  fate;  believes  that  man's 
temper  governs  them;  that  for  me,  it  avails  not  to  trust  in 
principles;  they  will  fail  me;  I  must  bend  a  little;  it  distrusts 
nature;  it  thinks  there  is  a  general  law  without  a  particular 
application, — law  for  all  that  does  not  include  any  one. 
Reform  in  its  antagonism  inclines  to  asinine  resistance,  to 
kick  with  hoofs;  it  runs  to  egotism  and  bloated  self-conceit; 
it  runs  to  a  bodiless  pretension,  to  unnatural  refining  and 
elevation,  which  ends  in  hypocrisy  and  sensual  reaction. 

And  so  whilst  we  do  not  go  beyond  general  statements,  it 
may  be  safely  affirmed  of  these  two  metaphysical  antagonists, 
that  each  is  a  good  half,  but  an  impossible  whole.  ^  Each  ex- 
-  poses  the  abuses  of  the  other,  but  in  a  true  society,  in  a 
true  man,  both  must  combine.  Nature  does  not  give  the 
crown  of  its  approbation,  namely,  beauty,  to  any  action  or 
emblem  or  actor,  but  to  one  which  combines  both  these 
elements;  not  to  the  rock  which  resists  the  waves  from  age 


THE   CONSERVATIVE  327 

to  age,  nor  to  the  wave  which  lashes  incessantly  the  rock,  but 
the  superior  beauty  is  with  the  oak  which  stands  with  its 
hundred  arms  against  the  storms  of  a  century,  and  grows 
every  year  like  a  sapling;  or  the  river  which  ever  flowing, 
yet  is  found  in  the  same  bed  from  age  to  age;  or,  grandest 
of  all,  the  man  who  has  subsisted  for  years  amid  the  changes 
of  nature,  yet  has  distanced  himself,  so  that  when  you  re 
member  what  he  was,  and  see  what  he  is,  you  say,  What 
strides !  what  a  disparity  is  here ! 

Throughout  nature  the  past  combines  in  every  creature 
with  the  present.  Each  of  the  convolutions  of  the  sea-shell, 
each  node  and  spine  marks  one  year  of  the  fish's  life,  what 
was  the  mouth  of  the  shell  for  one  season,  with  the  addition 
of  new  matter  by  the  growth  of  the  animal,  becoming  an 
ornamental  node.  The  leaves  and  a  shell  of  soft  wood  are 
all  that  the  vegetation  of  this  summer  has  made,  but  the 
solid  columnar  stem,  which  lifts  that  bank  of  foliage  into 
the  air  to  draw  the  eye  and  to  cool  us  with  its  shade,  is  the 
gift  and  legacy  of  dead  and  buried  years. 

In  nature,  each  of  these  elements  being  always  present, 
each  theory  has  a  natural  support.  As  we  take  our  stand 
on  Necessity,  or  on  Ethics,  shall  we  go  for  the  conservative, 
or  for  the  reformer.  If  we  read  the  world  historically,  we 
shall  say,  Of  all  the  ages  the  present  hour  and  circumstance 
is  the  cumulative  result ;  this  is  the  best  throw  of  the  dice 
of  nature  that  has  yet  been,  or  that  is  yet  possible.  If  we 
see  it  from  the  side  of  Will,  or  the  Moral  Sentiment,  we  shall 
accuse  the  Past  and  the  Present,  and  require  the  impossible 
of  the  Future. 

But  although  this  bifold  fact  lies  thus  united  in  real  nature, 
and  so  united  that  no  man  can  continue  to  exist  in  whom 
both  these  elements  do  not  work,  yet  men  are  not  philoso 
phers,  but  are  rather  very  foolish  children,  who,  by  reason 
of  their  partiality,  see  everything  in  the  most  absurd  manner, 
and  are  the  victims  at  all  times  of  the  nearest  object.  There 
is  even  no  philosopher  who  is  a  philosopher  at  all  times.  Our 
experience,  our  perception  is  conditioned  by  the  need  to  ac 
quire  in  parts  and  in  succession,  that  is,  with  every  truth 
a  certain  falsehood.  As  this  is  the  invariable  method  of  our 


328  THE   CONSERVATIVE 

training,  we  must  give  it  allowance,  and  suffer  men  to  learn 
as  they  have  done  for  six  millenniums,  a  word  at  a  time,  to 
pair  off  into  insane  parties,  and  learn  the  amount  of  truth 
each  knows,  by  the  denial  of  an  equal  amount  of  truth.  For 
the  present,  then,  to  come  at  what  sum  is  attainable  to  us, 
we  must  even  hear  the  parties  plead  as  parties. 

That  which  is  best  about  conservatism,  that  which,  though 
it  cannot  be  expressed  in  detail,  inspires  reverence  in  all,  is 
the  Inevitable.  There  is  the  question  not  only,  what  the  con 
servative  says  for  himself  ?  but,  why  must  he  say  it  ?  What 
insurmountable  fact  binds  him  to  that  side?  Here  is  the 
fact  which  men  call  Fate,  and  fate  in  dread  degrees,  fate 
behind  fate,  not  to  be  disposed  of  by  the  consideration  that 
the  Conscience  commands  this  or  that,  but  necessitating 
the  question,  whether  the  faculties  of  man  will  play  him 
true  in  resisting  the  facts  of  universal  experience?  For 
although  the  commands  of  the  Conscience  are  essentially 
absolute,  they  are  historically  limitary.  Wisdom  does  not 
seek  a  literal  rectitude,  but  an  useful,  that  is,  a  conditioned 
one,  such  a  one  as  the  faculties  of  man  and  the  constitution  of 
things  will  warrant.  The  reformer,  the  partisan  loses  him 
self  in  driving  to  the  utmost  some  specialty  of  right  conduct, 
until  his  own  nature  and  all  nature  resists  him;  but  Wisdom 
attempts  nothing  enormous  and  disproportioned  to  its 
powers,  nothing  which  it  cannot  perform  or  nearly  perform. 
We  have  all  a  certain  intellection  or  presentiment  of  reform 
existing  in  the  mind,  which  does  not  yet  descend  into  the 
character,  and  those  who  throw  themselves  blindly  on  this 
lose  themselves.  Whatever  they  attempt  in  that  direction, 
fails,  and  reacts  stiicidally  on  the  actor  himself.  This  is 
the  penalty  of  having  transcended  nature.  For  the  ex 
isting  world  is  not  a  dream,  and  cannot  with  impunity  be 
treated  as  a  dream;  neither  is  it  a  disease;  but  it  is  the 
ground  on  which  you  stand,  it  is  the  mother  of  whom  you 
were  born.  Reform  converses  with  possibilities,  perchance 
with  impossibilities;  but  here  is  sacred  fact.  This  also  was 
true,  or  it  could  not  be:  it  had  life  in  it,  or  it  could  not  have 
existed;  it  has  life  in  it,  or  it  could  not  continue.  Your 
schemes  may  be  feasible,  or  may  not  be,  but  this  has  the 


THE   CONSERVATIVE  329 

endorsement  of  nature  and  a  long  friendship  and  cohabita 
tion  with  the  powers  of  nature.    This  will  stand  until  a 
better   cast   of   dice   is   made.    The    contest   between   the 
Future  and  the  Past  is  one  between  Divinity  entering,  and 
Divinity  departing.    You  are  welcome  to  try  your  experi 
ments,  and,  if  you  can,  to  displace  the  actual  order  by  that 
ideal  republic  you  announce,  for  nothing  but  God  will  expel 
God.    But  plainly  the  burden  of  the  proof  must  lie  with  the  * 
projector.    We  hold  to  this,  until  you   can  demonstrate  * 
something  better. 

The  system  of  property  and  law  goes  back  for  its  origin 
to  barbarous  and  sacred  times;  it  is  the  fruit  of  the  same 
mysterious  cause  as  the  mineral  or  animal  world.  There  is 
a  natural  sentiment  and  prepossession  in  favor  of  age,  of 
ancestors,  of  barbarous  and  aboriginal  usages,  which  is  a 
homage  to  the  element  of  necessity  and  divinity  which  is 
in  them.  The  respect  for  the  old  names  of  places,  of  moun 
tains,  and  streams,  is  universal.  The  Indian  and  barbarous 
name  can  never  be  supplanted  without  loss.  The  ancients 
tell  us  that  the  gods  loved  the  Ethiopians  for  their  stable 
customs;  and  the  Egyptians  and  Chaldeans,  whose  origin 
could  not  be  explored,  passed  among  the  junior  tribes  of 
Greece  and  Italy  for  sacred  nations. 

Moreover,  so  deep  is  the  foundation  of  the  existing 
social  system,  that  it  leaves  no  one  out  of  it.  We  may  be 
partial,  but  Fate  is  not.  All  men  have  their  root  in  it. 
You  who  quarrel  with  the  arrangements  of  society,  and  are 
willing  to  embroil  all,  and  risk  the  indisputable  good  that 
exists,  for  the  chance  of  better,  live,  move  and  have  your 
being  in  this,  and  your  deeds  contradict  your  words  every 
day.  For  as  you  cannot  jump  from  the  ground  without 
using  the  resistance  of  the  ground,  nor  put  out  the  boat  to 
sea,  without  shoving  from  the  shore,  nor  attain  liberty  with 
out  rejecting  obligation,  so  you  are  under  the  necessity  of 
using  the  Actual  order  of  things,  in  order  to  disuse  it;  to 
live  by  it,  whilst  you  wish  to  take  away  its  life.  The  past 
has  baked  your  loaf,  and  in  the  strength  of  its  bread  you 
would  break  up  the  oven.  But  you  are  betrayed  by  your 
own  nature.  You  also  are  conservatives .  However  men 


330  THE  CONSERVATIVE 

please  to  style  themselves,  I  see  no  other  than  a  conservative 
party.  You  are  not  only  identical  with  us  in  your  needs, 
but  also  in  your  methods  and  aims.  You  quarrel  with  my 
conservatism,  but  it  is  to  build  up  one  of  your  own;  it  will 
have  a  new  beginning,  but  the  same  course  and  end,  the  same 
trials,  the  same  passions;  among  the  lovers  of  the  new  I 
observe  that  there  is  a  jealousy  of  the  newest,  and  that  the 
seceder  from  the  seceder  is  as  damnable  as  the  pope  himself. 

On  these  and  the  like  grounds  of  general  statement,  con 
servatism  plants  itself  without  danger  of  being  displaced. 
Especially  before  this  personal  appeal,  the  innovator  must 
confess  his  weakness,  must  confess  that  no  man  is  to  be 
found  good  enough  to  be  entitled  to  stand  champion  for 
the  principle.  But  when  this  great  tendency  comes  to 
practical  encounters,  and  is  challenged  by  young  men,  to 
whom  it  is  no  abstraction,  but  a  fact  of  hunger,  distress,  and 
exclusion  from  opportunities,  it  must  needs  seem  injurious. 
The  youth,  of  course,  is  an  innovator  by  the  fact  of  his 
birth.  There  he  stands,  newly  born  on  the  planet,  a  uni 
versal  beggar,  with  all  the  reason  of  things,  one  would  say, 
on  his  side.  In  his  first  consideration  how  to  feed,  clothe, 
and  warm  himself,  he  is  met  by  warnings  on  every  hand, 
that  this  thing  and  that  thing  have  owners,  and  he  must  go 
elsewhere.  Then  he  says;  If  I  am  born  into  the  earth,  where 
is  my  part?  have  the  goodness,  gentlemen  of  this  world,  to 
show  me  my  wood-lot,  where  I  may  fell  my  wood,  my  field 
where  to  plant  my  corn,  my  pleasant  ground  where  to  build 
my  cabin. 

"Touch  any  wood,  or  field,  or  house-lot,  on  your  peril," 
cry  all  the  gentlemen  of  this  world;  "but  you  may  come  and 
work  in  ours,  for  us  and  we  will  give  you  a  piece  of  bread." 

And  what  is  that  peril? 

Knives  and  muskets,  if  we  meet  you  in  the  act:  imprison 
ment,  if  we  find  you  afterward. 

And  by  what  authority,  kind  gentlemen? 

By  our  law. 

And  your  law, — is  it  just? 

As  just  for  you  as  it  was  for  us.  We  wrought  for  others 
under  this  law,  and  got  our  lands  so. 


THE   CONSERVATIVE  331 

I  repeat  the  question,  Is  your  law  just? 

Not  quite  just,  but  necessary.  Moreover,  it  is  juster  now 
than  it  was  when  we  were  born;  we  have  made  it  milder 
and  more  equal. 

I  will  none  of  your  law,  returns  the  youth;  it  encumbers 
me.  I  cannot  understand,  or  so  much  as  spare  time  to 
read  that  needless  library  of  your  laws.  Nature  has  suf 
ficiently  provided  me  with  rewards  and  sharp  penalties,  to 
bind  me  not  to  transgress.  Like  the  Persian  noble  of  old, 
I  ask  "that  I  may  neither  command  nor  obey."  I  do  not 
wish  to  enter  into  your  complex  social  system.  I  shall  serve 
those  whom  I  can,  and  they  who  can  will  serve  me.  I 
shall  seek  those  whom  I  love,  and  shun  those  whom  I  love 
not,  and  what  more  can  all  your  laws  render  me? 

With  equal  earnestness  and  good  faith,  replies  to  this 
plaintiff  an  upholder  of  the  establishment,  a  man  of  many 
virtues : 

Your  opposition  is  feather-brained  and  over-fine.  Young 
man,  I  have  no  skill  to  talk  with  you,  but  look  at  me;  I  have 
risen  early  and  sat  late,  and  toiled  honestly,  and  painfully 
for  very  many  years.  I  never  dreamed  about  methods; 
I  laid  my  bones  to,  and  drudged  for  the  good  I  possess;  it 
was  not  got  by  fraud,  nor  by  luck,  but  by  work,  and  you 
must  show  me  a  warrant  like  these  stubborn  facts  in  your 
own  fidelity  and  labor,  before  I  suffer  you,  on  the  faith  of 
a  few  fine  words,  to  ride  into  my  estate,  and  claim  to  scatter 
it  as  your  own. 

Now  you  touch  the  heart  of  the  matter,  replies  the  former. 
To  that  fidelity  and  labor,  I  pay  homage.  I  am  unworthy 
to  arraign  your  manner  of  living,  until  I  too  have  been  tried. 
But  I  should  be  more  unworthy,  if  I  did  not  tell  you  why  I 
cannot  walk  in  your  steps.  I  find  this  vast  network,  which 
you  call  property,  extended  over  the  whole  planet.  I  can 
not  occupy  the  bleakest  crag  of  the  White  Hills  or  the 
Alleghany  Range,  but  some  man  or  corporation  steps  up 
to  me  to  show  me  that  it  is  his.  Now,  though  I  am  very 
peaceable,  and  on  my  private  account  could  well  enough 
die,  since  it  appears  there  was  some  mistake  in  my  creation, 
and  that  I  have  been  missent  to  this  earth,  where  all  the 


332  THE   CONSERVATIVE 

seats  were  already  taken, — yet  I  feel  called  upon  in  behalf 
of  rational  nature,  which  I  represent,  to  declare  to  you  my 
opinion,  that,  if  the  Earth  is  yours,  so  also  is  it  mine.  All 
your  aggregate  existences  are  less  to  me  a  fact  than  is  my 
own;  as  I  am  born  to  the  earth,  so  the  Earth  is  given  to  me, 
what  I  want  of  it  to  till  and  to  plant;  nor  could  I,  without 
pusillanimity,  omit  to  claim  so  much.  I  must  not  only  have 
a  name  to  live,  I  must  live.  My  genius  leads  me  to  build 
a  different  manner  of  life  from  any  of  yours.  I  cannot  then 
spare  you  the  whole  world.  I  love  you  better.  I  must 
tell  you  the  truth  practically;  and  take  that  which  you  call 
yours.  It  is  God's  world  and  mine;  yours  as  much  as  you 
want,  mine  as  much  as  I  want.  Besides,  I  know  your  ways; 
I  know  the  symptoms  of  the  disease.  To  the  end  of  your 
power,  you  will  serve  this  lie  which  cheats  you.  Your  Want 
is  a  gulf  which  the  possession  of  the  broad  earth  would  not 
fill.  Yonder  sun  in  heaven  you  would  pluck  down  from 
shining  on  the  universe,  and  make  him  a  property  and  pri 
vacy,  if  you  could;  and  the  moon  and  the  north  star  you 
would  quickly  have  occasion  for  in  your  closet  and  bed 
chamber.  What  you  do  not  want  for  use,  you  crave  for 
ornament,  and  what  your  convenience  could  spare,  your 
pride  cannot. 

On  the  other  hand,  precisely  the  defence  which  was  set  up 
for  the  British  Constitution,  namely,  that  with  all  its  ad 
mitted  defects,  rotten  boroughs  and  monopolies,  it  worked 
well,  and  substantial  justice  was  somehow  done;  the  wisdom 
and  the  worth  did  get  into  parliament,  and  every  interest 
did  by  right,  or  might,  or  sleight,  get  represented: — the  same 
defence  is  set  up  for  the  existing  institutions.  They  are  not 
the  best;  they  are  not  just;  and  in  respect  to  you,  personally, 
0  brave  young  man!  they  cannot  be  justified.  They  have, 
it  is  most  true,  left  you  no  acre  for  your  own,  and  no  law 
but  our  law,  to  the  ordaining  of  which,  you  were  no  party. 
But  they  do  answer  the  end,  they  are  really  friendly  to  the 
good;  unfriendly  to  the  bad;  they  second  the  industrious, 
and  the  kind;  they  foster  genius.  They  really  have  so 
much  flexibility  as  to  afford  your  talent  and  character,  on 
the  whole,  the  same  chance  of  demonstration  and  success 


THE  CONSERVATIVE  333 

which  they  might  have,  if  there  was  no  law  ana  no  property. 
It  is  trivial  and  merely  superstitious  to  say  that  nothing 
is  given  you,  no  outfit,  no  exhibition;  for  in  this  institution 
of  credit,  which  is  as  universal  as  honesty  and  promise  in  the 
human  countenance,  always  some  neighbor  stands  ready  to 
be  bread  and  land  and  tools  and  stock  to  the  young  adven 
turer.  And  if  in  any  one  respect  they  have  come  short, 
see  what  ample  retribution  of  good  they  have  made.  They 
have  lost  no  time  and  spared  no  expense  to  collect  libraries, 
museums,  galleries,  colleges,  palaces,  hospitals,  observatories, 
cities.  The  ages  have  not  been  idle,  nor  kings  slack,  nor  the 
rich  niggardly.  Have  we  not  atoned  for  this  small  offence 
(which  we  could  riot  help)  of  leaving  you  no  right  in  the 
soil,  by  this  splendid  indemnity  of  ancestral  and  national 
wealth  ?  Would  you  have  been  born  like  a  gypsy  in  a  hedge, 
and  preferred  your  freedom  on  a  heath,  and  the  range  of  a 
planet  which  had  no  shed  or  boscage  to  cover  you  from 
sun  and  wind, — to  this  towered  and  citied  world?  to  this 
world  of  Rome,  and  Memphis,  and  Constantinople,  and 
Vienna,  and  Paris,  and  London,  and  New  York?  For  thee 
Naples,  Florence,  and  Venice,  for  thee  the  fair  Mediterra 
nean,  the  sunny  Adriatic ;  for  thee  both  Indies  smile ;  for  thee 
the  hospitable  North  opens  its  heated  palaces  under  the  polar 
circle;  for  thee  roads  have  been  cut  in  every  direction  across 
the  land,  and  fleets  of  floating  palaces  with  every  security 
for  strength,  and  provision  for  luxury,  swim  by  sail  and 
by  steam  through  all  the  waters  of  this  world.  Every 
island  for  thee  has  a  town;  every  town  a  hotel.  Though 
thou  wast  born  landless,  yet  to  thy  industry  and  thrift  and 
small  condescension  to  the  established  usage, — scores  of  ser 
vants  are  swarming  in  every  strange  place  with  cap  and 
knee  to  thy  command,  scores,  nay  hundreds  and  thousands, 
for  thy  wardrobe,  thy  table,  thy  chamber,  thy  library,  thy 
leisure ;  and  every  whim  is  anticipated  and  served  by  the  best 
ability  of  the  whole  population  of  each  country.  The  king  on 
the  throne  governs  for  thee,  and  the  judge  judges;  the  bar 
rister  pleads,  the  farmer  tills,  the  joiner  hammers,  the  post 
man  rides.  Is  it  not  exaggerating  a  trifle  to  insist  on  a  for 
mal  acknowledgment  of  your  claims,  when  these  substantial 


334  THE   CONSERVATIVE 

advantages  have  been  secured  to  you?  Now  can  your 
children  be  educated,  your  labor  turned  to  their  advantage, 
and  its  fruit  secured  to  them  after  your  death.  It  is  frivo 
lous  to  say,  you  have  no  acre,  because  you  have  not  a  mathe 
matically  measured  piece  of  land.  Providence  takes  care 
that  you  shall  have  a  place,  that  you  are  waited  for,  and 
come  accredited;  and,  as  soon  as  you  put  your  gift  to  use, 
you  shall  have  acre  or  acre's  worth  according  to  your 
exhibition  of  desert, —  acre,  if  you  need  land; — acre's 
worth,  if  you  prefer  to  draw,  or  carve,  or  make  shoes,  or 
wheels,  to  the  tilling  of  the  soil. 

Besides,  it  might  temper  your  indignation  at  the  sup 
posed  wrong  which  society  has  done  you,  to  keep  the  ques 
tion  before  you,  how  society  got  into  this  predicament? 
Who  put  things  on  this  false  basis?  No  single  man,  but  all 
men.  No  man  voluntarily  and  knowingly;  but  it  is  the 
result  of  that  degree  of  culture  there  is  in  the  planet.  The 
order  of  things  is  as  good  as  the  character  of  the  population 
permits.  Consider  it  as  the  work  of  a  great  and  beneficent 
and  progressive  necessity,  which,  from  the  first  pulsation  of 
the  first  animal  life,  up  to  the  present  high  culture  of  the 
best  nations,  has  advanced  thus  far.  Thank  the  rude  foster- 
mother  though  she  has  taught  you  a  better  wisdom  than  her 
own,  and  has  set  hopes  in  your  heart  which  shall  be  history 
in  the  next  ages.  You  are  yourself  the  result  of  this  manner 
of  living,  this  foul  compromise,  this  vituperated  Sodom.  It 
nourished  you  with  care  and  love  on  its  breast,  as  it  had 
nourished  many  a  lover  of  the  right,  and  many  a  poet,  and 
prophet,  and  teacher  of  men.  Is  it  so  irremediably  bad? 
Then  again,  if  the  mitigations  are  considered,  do  not  all  the 
mischiefs  virtually  vanish?  The  form  is  bad,  but  see  you 
not  how  every  personal  character  reacts  on  the  form,  and 
makes  it  new?  A  strong  person  makes  the  law  and  custom 
null  before  his  own  will.  Then  the  principle  of  love  and 
truth  reappears  in  the  strictest  courts  of  fashion  and  prop 
erty.  Under  the  richest  robes,  in  the  darlings  of  the  select- 
est  circles  of  European  or  American  aristocracy,  the  strong 
heart  will  beat  with  love  of  mankind,  with  impatience  of 
accidental  distinctions,  with  the  desire  to  achieve  its  own 


THE   CONSERVATIVE  335 

fate,  and  make  every  ornament  it  wears  authentic  and  real. 

Moreover,  as  we  have  already  shown  that  there  is  no 
pure  reformer,  so  it  is  to  be  considered  that  there  is  no  pure 
conservative,  no  man  who  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of 
his  life  maintains  the  defective  institutions;  but  he  who  sets 
his  face  like  a  flint  against  every  novelty,  when  approached 
in  the  confidence  of  conversation,  in  the  presence  of  friendly 
and  generous  persons,  has  also  his  gracious  and  relenting 
motions,  and  espouses  for  the  time  the  cause  of  man;  and 
even  if  this  be  a  short-lived  emotion,  yet  the  remembrance 
of  it  in  private  hours  mitigates  his  selfishness  and  com 
pliance  with  custom. 

The  Friar  Bernard  lamented  in  his  cell  on  Mount  Cenis 
the  crimes  of  mankind,  and  rising  one  morning  before  day 
from  his  bed  of  moss  and  dry  leaves,  he  gnawed  his  roots 
and  berries,  drank  of  the  spring,  and  set  forth  to  go  to  Rome 
to  reform  the  corruption  of  mankind.  On  his  way  he  en 
countered  many  travelers  who  greeted  him  courteously; 
and  the  cabins  of  the  peasants  and  the  castles  of  the  lords 
supplied  his  few  wants.  When  he  came  at  last  to  Rome, 
his  piety  and  good  will  easily  introduced  him  to  many 
families  of  the  rich,  and  on  the  first  day  he  saw  and  talked 
with  gentle  mothers  with  their  babes  at  their  breasts,  who 
told  him  how  much  love  they  bore  their  children,  and  how 
they  were  perplexed  in  their  daily  walk  lest  they  should 
fail  in  their  duty  to  them.  "What!"  he  said,  "and  this  on 
rich  embroidered  carpets,  on  marble  floors,  with  cunning 
sculpture,  and  carved  wood,  and  rich  pictures,  and  piles  of 
books  about  you?" — "Look  at  our  pictures  and  books,  they 
said,  and  we  will  tell  you,  good  Father,  how  we  spent  the 
last  evening.  These  are  stories  of  godly  children  and  holy 
families  and  romantic  sacrifices  made  in  old  or  in  recent 
times  by  great  and  not  mean  persons;  and  last  evening,  our 
family  was  collected,  and  our  husbands  and  brothers  dis 
coursed  sadly  on  what  we  could  save  and  give  in  the  hard 
times."  Then  came  in  the  men  and  they  said,  "What  cheer, 
brother?  Does  thy  convent  want  gifts?"  Then  the  friar 
Bernard  went  home  swiftly  with  other  thoughts  than  he 
brought,  saying,  "This  way  of  life  is  wrong,  yet  these 


336  THE   CONSERVATIVE 

Romans,  whom  I  prayed  God  to  destroy,  are  lovers,  they 
are  lovers;  what  can  I  do?" 

The  reformer  concedes  that  these  mitigations  exist,  and 
that,  if  he  proposed  comfort,  he  should  take  sides  with  the 
establishment.  Your  words  are  excellent,  but  they  do  not 
tell  the  whole.  Conservatism  is  affluent  and  openhanded, 
but  there  is  a  cunning  juggle  in  riches.  I  observe  that  they 
take  somewhat  for  everything  they  give.  I  look  bigger, 
but  am  less;  I  have  more  clothes  but  am  not  so  warm;  more 
armor,  but  less  courage;  more  books,  but  less  wit.  What 
you  say  of  your  planted,  builded,  and  decorated  world,  is 
true  enough,  and  I  gladly  avail  myself  of  its  convenience; 
yet  I  have  remarked  that  what  holds  in  particular,  holds  in 
general,  that  the  plant  Man  does  not  require  for  his  most 
glorious  flowering  this  pomp  of  preparation  and  convenience, 
but  the  thoughts  of  some  beggarly  Homer  who  strolled,  God 
knows  when,  in  the  infancy  and  barbarism  of  the  old  world; 
the  gravity  and  sense  of  some  slave  Moses  who  leads  away 
his  fellow  slaves  from  their  masters;  the  contemplation  of 
some  Scythian  Anacharsis;  the  erect  formidable  valor  of 
some  Dorian  townsmen  in  the  town  of  Sparta;  the  vigor  of 
Clovis  the  Frank,  and  Alfred  the  Saxon,  and  Alaric  the  Goth, 
and  Mahomet,  Ali,  and  Omar  the  Arabians,  Saladin  the  Curd, 
and  Othman  the  Turk,  sufficed  to  build  what  you  call  society, 
on  the  spot  and  in  the  instant  when  the  sound  mind  in  a 
sound  body  appeared.  Rich  and  fine  is  your  dress,  0  con 
servatism!  your  horses  are  of  the  best  blood;  your  roads  are 
well  cut  and  well  paved;  your  pantry  is  full  of  meats  and 
your  cellar  of  wines,  and  a  very  good  state  and  condition 
are  you  for  gentlemen  and  ladies  to  live  under;  but  every 
one  of  these  goods  steals  away  a  drop  of  my  blood.  I  want 
the  necessity  of  supplying  my  own  wants.  All  this  costly  cul 
ture  of  pours  is  not  necessary.  Greatness  does  not  need  it. 
Yonder  peasant,  who  sits  neglected  there  in  a  corner,  carries 
a  whole  revolution  of  man  and  nature  in  his  head,  which 
shall  be  a  sacred  history  to  some  future  ages.  For  man  is 
the  end  of  nature;  nothing  so  easily  organizes  itself  in  every 
part  of  the  universe  as  he;  no  moss,  no  lichen  is  so  easily 
born;  and  he  takes  along  with  him  and  puts  out  from  him- 


THE   CONSERVATIVE  337 

self  the  whole  apparatus  of  society  and  condition  extempore, 
as  an  army  encamps  in  a  desert,  and  where  all  was  just 
now  blowing  sand,  creates  a  white  city  in  an  hour,  a  govern 
ment,  a  market,  a  place  for  feasting,  for  conversation,  and 
for  love. 

These  considerations,  urged  by  those  whose  characters  and 
whose  fortunes  are  yet  to  be  formed,  must  needs  command 
the  sympathy  of  all  reasonable  persons.  But  beside  that 
charity  which  should  make  all  adult  persons  interested  for 
the  youth,  and  engage  them  to  see  that  he  has  a  free  field 
and  fair  play  on  his  entrance  into  life,  we  are  bound  to  see 
that  the  society,  of  which  we  compose  a  part,  does  not 
permit  the  formation  or  continuance  of  views  and  practices 
injurious  to  the  honor  and  welfare  of  mankind.  The  ob 
jection  to  conservatism,  when  embodied  in  a  party,  is,  that 
in  its  love  of  acts,  it  hates  principles;  it  lives  in  the  senses, 
not  in  truth;  it  sacrifices  to  despair;  it  goes  for  available- 
ness  in  its  candidate,  not  for  worth;  and  for  expediency  in  its 
measures,  and  not  for  the  right.  Under  pretence  of  allow 
ing  for  friction,  it  makes  so  many  additions  and  supplements 
to  the  machine  of  society,  that  it  will  play  smoothly  and 
softly,  but  will  no  longer  grind  any  grist. 

The  conservative  party  in  the  universe  concedes  that  the 
radical  would  talk  sufficiently  to  the  purpose,  if  we  were  still 
in  the  garden  of  Eden;  he  legislates  for  man  as  he  ought  to 
be;  his  theory  is  right,  but  he  makes  no  allowance  for 
friction;  and  this  omission  makes  his  whole  doctrine  false. 
The  idealist  retorts,  that  the  conservative  falls  into  a  far 
more  noxious  error  in  the  other  extreme.  The  conservative 
assumes  sickness  as  a  necessity,  and  his  social  frame  is  a 
hospital,  his  total  legislation  is  for  the  present  distress,  a 
universe  in  slippers  and  flannels,  with  bib  and  papspoon, 
swallowing  pills  and  herb-tea.  Sickness  gets  organized  as 
well  as  health,  the  vice  as  well  as  the  virtue.  Now  that  a 
vicious  system  of  trade  has  existed  so  long,  it  has  stereo 
typed  itself  in  the  human  generation,  and  misers  are  born. 
And  now  that  sickness  has  got  such  a  foothold,  leprosy  haa 
grown  cunning,  has  got  into  the  ballot-box,  the  lepers  out 
vote  the  clean;  society  has  resolved  itself  into  a  Hospital 


338  THE   CONSERVATIVE 

Committee,  and  all  its  laws  are  quarantine.  If  any  man 
resist,  and  set  up  a  foolish  hope  he  has  entertained  as  good 
against  the  general  despair,  society  frowns  on  him,  shuts 
him  out  of  her  opportunities,  her  granaries,  her  refectories, 
her  water  and  bread,  and  will  serve  him  a  sexton's  turn. 
Conservatism  takes  as  low  a  view  of  every  part  of  human 
action  and  passion.  Its  religion  is  just  as  bad;  a  lozenge  for 
the  sick;  a  dolorous  tune  to  beguile  the  distemper;  miti 
gations  of  pain  by  pillows  and  anodynes;  always  mitigations, 
never  remedies;  pardons  for  sins,  funeral  honors, — never 
self-help,  renovation,  and  virtue.  Its  social  and  political 
action  has  no  better  aim;  to  keep  out  wind  and  weather,  to 
bring  the  day  and  year  about,  and  make  the  world  last  our 
day;  not  to  sit  on  the  world  and  steer  it;  not  to  sink  the 
memory  of  the  past  in  the  glory  of  a  new  and  more  excel 
lent  creation;  a  timid  cobbler  and  patcher,  it  degrades  what 
ever  it  touches.  The  cause  of  education  is  urged  in  this 
country  with  the  utmost  earnestness, — on  what  ground? 
why  on  this,  that  the  people  have  the  power,  and  if  they  are 
not  instructed  to  sympathize  with  the  intelligent,  reading, 
trading,  and  governing  class,  inspired  with  a  taste  for  the 
same  competitions  and  prizes,  they  will  upset  the  fair 
pageant  of  Judicature,  and  perhaps  lay  a  hand  on  the  sacred 
muniments  of  wealth  itself,  and  new  distribute  the  land. 
Religion  is  taught  in  the  same  spirit.  The  contractors  who 
were  building  a  road  out  of  Baltimore,  some  years  ago, 
found  the  Irish  laborers  quarrelsome  and  refractory,  to 
a  degree  that  embarrassed  the  agents,  and  seriously  inter 
rupted  the  progress  of  the  work.  The  corporation  were 
advised  to  call  off  the  police,  and  build  a  Catholic  chapel; 
which  they  did;  the  priest  presently  restored  order,  and  the 
work  went  on  prosperously.  Such  hints,  be  sure,  are  too 
valuable  to  be  lost.  If  you  do  not  value  the  Sabbath,  or 
other  religious  institutions,  give  yourself  no  concern  about 
maintaining  them.  They  have  already  acquired  a  market 
value  as  conservators  of  property;  and  if  priest  and  church- 
member  should  fail,  the  chambers  of  commerce  and  the 
presidents  of  the  Banks,  the  very  innholders  and  landlords 
of  the  country  would  muster  with  fury  to  their  support. 


THE   CONSERVATIVE  339 

Of  course,  religion  in  such  hands  loses  its  essence.  Instead 
of  that  reliance,  which  the  soul  suggests  on  the  eternity  of 
truth  and  duty,  men  are  misled  into  a  reliance  on  institutions, 
which,  the  moment  they  cease  to  be  the  instantaneous 
creations  of  the  devout  sentiment,  are  worthless.  Religion 
among  the  low  becomes  low.  As  it  loses  its  truth,  it  loses 
credit  with  the  sagacious.  They  detect  the  falsehood  of 
the  preaching,  but  when  they  say  so,  all  good  citizens  cry, 
Hush;  do  not  weaken  the  state,  do  not  take  off  the  strait- 
jacket  from  dangerous  persons.  Every  honest  fellow  must 
keep  up  the  hoax  the  best  he  can;  must  patronize  providence 
and  piety,  and  wherever  he  sees  anything  that  will  keep 
men  amused,  school  or  churches  or  poetry,  or  picture- 
galleries  or  music,  or  what  not,  he  must  cry  "Hist-a-boy," 
and  urge  the  game  on.  What  a  compliment  we  pay  to  the 
good  SPIRIT  with  our  superserviceable  zeal! 

But  not  to  balance  reasons  for  and  against  the  establish 
ment  any  longer,  and  if  it  still  be  asked  in  this  necessity  of 
partial  organization,  which  party  on  the  whole  has  the  high 
est  claims  on  our  sympathy  ?  I  bring  it  home  to  the  private 
heart,  where  all  such  questions  must  have  their  final  ar 
bitrament.  How  will  every  strong  and  generous  mind  choose 
its  ground, — with  the  defenders  of  the  old?  or  with  the 
seekers  of  the  new?  Which  is  that  state  which  promises  to 
edify  a  great,  brave,  and  beneficent  man;  to  throw  him  on  his 
resources,  and  tax  the  strength  of  his  character?  On  which 
part  will  each  of  us  find  himself  in  the  hour  of  health  and 
of  aspiration? 

I  understand  well  the  respect  of  mankind  for  war,  because 
that  breaks  up  the  Chinese  stagnation  of  Society,  and  dem 
onstrates  the  personal  merits  of  all  men.  A  state  of  war 
or  anarchy,  in  which  law  has  little  force,  so  far  as  valuable 
that  it  puts  every  man  on  trial.  The  man  of  principle  is 
known  as  such,  and  even  in  the  fury  of  faction  is  respected. 
In  the  civil  wars  of  France,  Montaigne  alone,  among  all  the 
French  gentry,  kept  his  castle  gates  unbarred,  and  made  his 
personal  integrity  as  good  at  least  as  a  regiment.  The  man 
of  courage  and  resources  is  shown,  and  the  effeminate  and 
base  person.  Those  who  rise  above  war,  and  those  who 


340  THE   CONSERVATIVE 

fall  below  it,  it  easily  discriminates,  as  well  as  those,  who, 
accepting  its  rude  conditions,  keep  their  own  head  by  their 
own  sword. 

But  in  peace  and  a  commercial  state  we  depend,  not  as 
we  ought,  on  our  knowledge  and  all  men's  knowledge  that 
we  are  honest  men,  but  we  cowardly  lean  on  the  virtue  of 
others.  For  it  is  always  at  last  the  virtue  of  some  men  in 
the  society,  which  keeps  the  law  in  any  reverence  and 
power.  Is  there  not  something  shameful  that  I  should  owe 
my  peaceful  occupancy  of  my  house  and  field,  not  to  the 
knowledge  of  my  countrymen  that  I  am  useful,  but  to  their 
respect  for  sundry  other  reputable  persons,  I  know  not 
whom,  whose  joint  virtues  still  keep  the  law  in  good  order? 

It  will  never  make  any  difference  to  a  hero  what  the  laws 
are.  His  greatness  will  shine  and  accomplish  itself  unto 
the  end,  whether  they  second  him  or  not.  If  he  have  earned 
his  bread  by  drudgery,  and  in  the  narrow  and  crooked  ways 
which  were  all  an  evil  law  had  left  him,  he  will  make  it  at 
least  honorable  by  his  expenditure.  Of  the  past  he  will  take 
no  heed ;  for  its  wrongs  he  will  not  hold  himself  responsible : 
he  will  say,  all  the  meanness  of  my  progenitors  shall  not 
bereave  me  of  the  power  to  make  this  hour  and  company 
fair  and  fortunate.  Whatsoever  streams  of  power  and  com 
modity  flow  to  me,  shall  of  me  acquire  healing  virtue,  and  be 
come  fountains  of  safety.  Cannot  I  too  descend  a  Redeemer 
into  nature?  Whosoever  hereafter  shall  name  my  name, 
shall  not  record  a  malefactor,  but  a  benefactor  in  the  earth. 
If  there  be  power  in  good  intention,  in  fidelity,  and  in 
toil,  the  north  wind  shall  be  purer,  the  stars  in  heaven  shall 
glow  with  a  kindlier  beam,  that  I  have  lived.  I  am  primarily 
engaged  to  myself  to  be  a  public  servant  of  all  the  gods,  to 
demonstrate  to  all  men  that  there  is  intelligence  and  good 
will  at  the  heart  of  things,  and  ever  higher  and  yet  higher 
leadings.  These  are  my  engagements;  how  can  your  Jaw 
further  or  hinder  me  in  what  I  shall  do  to  men?  On  the 
other  hand,  these  dispositions  establish  their  relations  to 
me.  Wherever  there  is  worth,  I  shall  be  greeted.  Wher 
ever  there  are  men,  are  the  objects  of  my  study  and  love. 
Sooner  or  later  all  men  will  be  my  friends,  and  will  testify 


THE   CONSERVATIVE  341 

in  all  methods  the  energy  of  their  regard.  I  cannot  thank 
your  law  for  my  protection.  I  protect  it.  It  is  not  in  its 
power  to  protect  me.  It  is  my  business  to  make  myself 
revered.  I  depend  on  my  honor,  my  labor,  and  my  dis 
positions,  for  my  place  in  the  affections  of  mankind,  and  not 
on  any  conventions  or  parchments  of  yours. 

But  if  I  allow  myself  in  derelictions,  and  become  idle  and 
dissolute,  I  quickly  come  to  love  the  protection  of  a  strong 
law,  because  I  feel  no  title  in  myself  to  my  advantages.  To 
the  intemperate  and  covetous  person  no  love  flows;  to  him 
mankind  would  pay  no  rent,  no  dividend,  if  force  were  once 
relaxed;  nay,  if  they  could  give  their  verdict,  they  would 
say,  that  his  self-indulgence  and  his  oppression  deserved 
punishment  from  society,  and  not  that  rich  board  and  lodging 
he  now  enjoys.  The  law  acts  as  a  screen  of  his  unworthiness, 
and  makes  him  worse  the  longer  it  protects  him. 

In  conclusion,  to  return  from  this  alternation  of  partial 
views,  to  the  high  platform  of  universal  and  necessary  his 
tory,  it  is  a  happiness  for  mankind  that  innovation  has  got 
on  so  far,  and  has  so  free  a  field  before  it.  The  boldness  of 
the  hope  men  entertain  transcends  all  former  experience. 
It  calms  and  cheers  them  with  the  picture  of  a  simple  and 
equal  life  of  truth  and  piety.  And  this  hope  flowered 
on  what  tree?  It  was  not  imported  from  the  stock  of  some 
celestial  plant,  but  grew  here  on  the  wild  crab  of  con 
servatism.  It  is  much  that  this  old  and  vituperated  system 
of  things  has  borne  so  fair  a  child.  It  predicts  that  amidst 
a  planet  peopled  with  conservatives,  one  Reformer  may  yet 
be  born. 


xvni 

THE  TRANSCENDENTALIST 

A  Lecture  read  at  the  Masonic  Temple,  Boston, 
January,  1842 

THE  first  thing  we  have  to  say  respecting  what  are  called 
new  views  here  in  New  England,  at  the  present  time,  is, 
that  they  are  not  new,  but  the  very  oldest  of  thoughts  cast 
into  the  mould  of  these  new  times.  The  light  is  always 
identical  in  its  composition,  but  it  falls  on  a  great  variety 
of  objects,  and  by  so  falling  is  first  revealed  to  us,  not  in 
its  own  form,  for  it  is  formless,  but  in  theirs;  in  like  manner, 
thought  only  appears  in  the  objects  it  classifies.  What  is 
popularly  called  Transcendentalism  among  us,  is  Idealism; 
Idealism  as  it  appears  in  1842.  As  thinkers,  mankind  have 
ever  divided  into  two  sects,  Materialists  and  Idealists;  the 
first  class  founding  on  experience,  the  second  on  conscious 
ness;  the  first  class  beginning  to  think  from  the  data  of  the 
senses,  the  second  class  perceive  that  the  senses  are  not  final, 
and  say,  the  senses  give  us  representations  of  things,  but 
what  are  the  things  themselves,  they  cannot  tell.  The 
materialist  insists  on  facts,  on  history,  on  the  force  of 
circumstances,  and  the  animal  wants  of  man;  the  idealist 
on  the  power  of  Thought  and  of  Will,  on  inspiration,  on 
miracle,  on  individual  culture.  These  two  modes  of  thinking 
are  both  natural,  but  the  idealist  contends  that  his  way  of 
thinking  is  in  higher  nature.  He  concedes  all  that  the  other 
affirms,  admits  the  impressions  of  sense,  admits  their  co 
herency,  their  use  and  beauty,  and  then  asks  the  materialist 
for  his  grounds  of  assurance,  that  things  are  as  his  senses 
represent  them.  But  I,  he  says,  affirm  facts  not  affected 
by  the  illusions  of  sense,  facts  which  are  of  the  same  nature 
as  the  faculty  which  reports  them,  and  not  liable  to  doubt; 

342 


THE  TRANSCENDENTALIST  343 

facts  which  in  their  first  appearance  to  us  assume  a  native 
superiority  to  material  facts,  degrading  these  into  a 
language  by  which  the  first  are  to  be  spoken;  facts  which 
it  only  needs  a  retirement  from  the  senses  to  discern.  Every 
materialist  will  be  an  idealist;  but  an  idealist  can  never  go 
backward  and  be  a  materialist. 

The  idealist,  in  speaking  of  events,  sees  them  as  spirits. 
He  does  not  deny  the  sensuous  fact:  by  no  means;  but  he 
will  not  see  that  alone.  He  does  not  deny  the  presence  of 
this  table,  this  chair,  and  the  walls  of  this  room,  but  he 
looks  at  these  things  as  the  reverse  side  of  the  tapestry, 
asjthe  other  end,  each  being  a  sequel  or  completion  of  a 
spiritual  fact  which  nearly  concerns  him.  This  manner  of 
looking  at  things,  transfers  every  object  in  nature  from  an 
independent  and  anomalous  position  without  there,  into 
the  consciousness.  Even  the  materialist  Condillac,  perhaps 
the  most  logical  expounder  of  materialism,  was  constrained 
to  say,  "Though  we  should  soar  into  the  heavens,  though 
we  should  sink  into  the  abyss,  we  never  go  out  of  ourselves; 
it  is  always  our  own  thought  that  we  perceive."  What 
more  could  an  idealist  say? 

The  materialist,  secure  in  the  certainty  of  sensation, 
mocks  at  fine-spun  theories,  at  star-gazers  and  dreamers, 
and  believes  that  his  life  is  solid,  that  he  at  least  takes  noth 
ing  for  granted,  but  knows  where  he  stands,  and  what  he 
does.  Yet  how  easy  it  is  to  show  him,  that  he  also  is  a 
phantom  walking  and  working  amid  phantoms,  and  that  he 
need  only  ask  a  question  or  two  beyond  his  daily  questions, 
to  find  his  solid  universe  growing  dim  and  impalpable  before 
his  sense.  The  sturdy  capitalist,  no  matter  how  deep  and 
square  on  blocks  of  Quincy  granite  he  lays  the  founda 
tions  of  his  banking-house  or  Exchange,  must  set  it,  at  last, 
not  on  a  cube  corresponding  to  the  angles  of  his  structure, 
but  on  a  mass  of  unknown  materials  and  solidity,  red-hot  or 
white-hot,  perhaps,  at  the  core,  which  rounds  off  to  an 
almost  perfect  sphericity,  and  lies  floating  in  soft  air,  and 
goes  spinning  away,  dragging  bank  and  banker  with  it  at  a 
rate  of  thousands  of  miles  the  hour,  he  knows  not  whither, — 
a  bit  of  bullet,  now  glimmering,  now  darkling  through  a 


344  THE  TRANSCENDENTALIST 

small  cubic  space  on  the  edge  of  an  unimaginable  pit  of 
emptiness.  And  this  wild  balloon,  in  which  his  whole  venture 
is  embarked,  is  a  just  symbol  of  his  whole  state  and  faculty. 
One  thing,  at  least,  he  says  is  certain,  and  does  not  give  me 
the  headache,  that  figures  do  not  lie;  the  multiplication  table 
has  been  hitherto  found  unimpeachable  truth;  and  moreover, 
if  I  put  a  gold  eagle  in  my  safe,  I  find  it  again  to-morrow;  — 
but  for  these  thoughts,  I  know  not  whence  they  are.  They 
change  and  pass  away.  But  ask  him  why  he  believes  that 
an  uniform  experience  will  continue  uniform,  or  on  what 
grounds  he  founds  his  faith  in  his  figures,  and  he  will  perceive 
that  his  mental  fabric  is  built  up  on  just  as  strange  and 
quaking  foundations  as  his  proud  edifice  of  stone. 

In  the  order  of  thought,  the  materialist  takes  his  de 
parture  from  the  external  world,  and  esteems  a  man  as  one 
product  of  that.  The  idealist  takes  his  departure  from  his 
consciousness,  and  reckons  the  world  an  appearance.  The 
materialist  respects  sensible  masses,  Society,  Government, 
social  art,  and  luxury,  every  establishment,  every  mass, 
whether  majority  of  numbers,  or  extent  of  space,  or  amount 
of  objects,  every  social  action.  The  idealist  has  another 
measure,  which  is  metaphysical,  namely,  the  rank  which 
things  themselves  take  in  his  consciousness;  not  at  all,  the 
size  or  appearance.  Mind  is  the  only  reality,  of  which  man 
and  all  other  natures  are  better  or  w~brse  reflectors.  Nature, 
literature,  history,  are  only  subjective  phenomena.  Al 
though  in  his  action  overpowered  by  the  laws  of  action,  and 
so,  warmly  cooperating  with  men,  even  preferring  them  to 
himself,  yet  when  he  speaks  scientifically,  or  after  the  order 
of  thought,  he  is  constrained  to  degrade  persons  into  rep 
resentatives  of  truths.  He  does  not  respect  labor,  or  the 
products  of  labor,  namely,  property,  otherwise  than  as  a 
manifold  symbol,  illustrating  with  wonderful  fidelity  of 
details  the  laws  of  being;  he  does  not  respect  government, 
except  as  far  as  it  reiterates  the  law  of  his  mind;  nor  the 
church;  nor  charities;  nor  arts,  for  themselves;  but  hears, 
as  at  a  vast  distance,  what  they  say,  as  if  his  consciousness 
would  speak  to  him  through  a  pantomimic  scene.  His 
thought, — that  is  the  Universe.  His  experience  injlines  him 


THE  TRANSCENDENTALIST  345 

to  behold  the  procession  of  facts  you  call  the  world,  as 
flowing  perpetually  outward  from  an  invisible,  unsounded 
center  in  himself,  center  alike  of  him  and  of  them,  and 
necessitating  him  to  regard  all  things  as  having  a  subjective 
or  relative  existence,  relative  to  that  aforesaid  Unknown 
Center  of  him. 

From  this  transfer  of  the  world  into  the  consciousness, 
this  beholding  of  all  things  in  the  mind,  follow  easily  his  ', 
whole  ethics.  It  is  simpler  to  be  self-dependent.  The 
height,  the  deity  of  man  is,  to  be  self-sustained,  to  need  no 
gift,  no  foreign  force.  Society  is  good  when  it  does  not 
violate  me;  but  best  when  it  is  likest  to  solitude.  Every 
thing  real  is  self -existent.  Everything  divine  shares  the  self- 
existence  of  Deity.  All  that  you  call  the  world  is  the  shadow 
of  that  substance  which  you  are,  the  perpetual  creation  of 
the  powers  of  thought,  of  those  that  are  dependent  and  of 
those  that  are  independent  of  your  will.  Do  not  cumber 
yourself  with  fruitless  pains  to  mend  and  remedy  remote 
effects;  let  the  soul  be  erect,  and  all  things  will  go  well. 
You  think  me  the  child  of  my  circumstances;  I  make  my 
circumstance.  Let  any  thought  or  motive  of  mine  be  dif 
ferent  from  that  they  are,  the  difference  will  transform  my 
condition  and  economy.  I — this  thought  which  is  called  I, — 
is  the  mould  into  which  the  woVld  is  poured  like  melted  wax. 
The  mould  is  invisible,  but  the  world  betrays  the  shape  of 
the  mould.  You  call  it  the  power  of  circumstance,  but  it 
is  the  power  of  me.  Am  I  in  harmony  with  myself?  my  po 
sition  will  seem  to  you  just  and  commanding.  Am  I  vicious 
and  insane?  my  fortunes  will  seem  to  you  obscure  and  de 
scending.  As  I  am,  so  shall  I  associate,  and  so  shall  I  act; 
Caesar's  history  will  paint  out  Caesar.  Jesus  acted  so, 
because  he  thought  so.  I  do  not  wish  to  overlook 
or  to  gainsay  any  reality;  I  say,  I  make  my  circumstance: 
but  if  you  ask  me,  Whence  am  I  ?  I  feel  like  other  men  my 
relation  to  that  Fact  which  cannot  be  spoken,  or  denned, 
nor  even  thought,  but  which  exists,  and  will  exist. 

The  Transcendentalist  adopts  the  whole  connection  of 
spiritual  doctrine.  He  believes  in  miracle,  in  the  perpetual 
openness  of  the  human  mind  to  new  influx  of  light  and 


346  THE  TRANSCENDENTALIST 

power;  he  believes  in  inspiration,  and  in  ecstasy.  He 
wishes  that  the  spiritual  principle  should  be  suffered  to 
demonstrate  itself  to  the  end,  in  all  possible  applications  to 
the  state  of  man,  without  the  admission  of  anything  un- 
spiritual;  that  is,  anything  positive,  dogmatic,  personal. 
Thus,  the  spiritual  measure  of  inspiration  is  the  depth  of 
the  thought,  and  never,  who  said  it?  And  so  he  resists  all 
attempts  to  palm  other  rules  and  measures  on  the  spirit 
than  its  own. 

In  action,  he  easily  incurs  the  charge  of  antinomianism 
by  his  avowal  that  he,  who  has  the  Lawgiver,  may  with 
safety  not  only  neglect,  but  even  contravene  every  written 
commandment.  In  the  play  of  Othello,  the  expiring  Des- 
demona  absolves  her  husband  of  the  murder,  to  her  attend 
ant  Emilia.  Afterwards,  when  Emilia  charges  him  with 
the  crime,  Othello  exclaims, 

"You  heard  her  say  herself  it  was  not  I." 
Emilia  replies, 

"The  more  angel  she,  and  thou  the  blacker  devil." 
Of  this  fine  incident,  Jacobi,  the  Transcendental  moralist, 
makes  use,  with  other  parallel  instances,  in  his  reply  to 
Fichte.  Jacobi,  refusing  all  measure  of  right  and  wrong 
except  the  determinations  of  the  private  spirit,  remarks 
that  there  is  no  crime  but  has  sometimes  been  a  virtue. 
"I,"  he  says,  "am  that  atheist,  that  godless  person  who,  in 
opposition  to  an  imaginary  doctrine  of  calculation,  would 
lie  as  the  dying  Desdemona  lied;  would  lie  and  deceive, 
as  Pylades  when  he  personated  Orestes;  would  assassinate 
like  Timoleon;  would  perjure  myself  like  Epaminondas, 
and  John  de  Witt;  I  would  resolve  on  suicide  like  Cato;  I 
would  commit  sacrilege  with  David;  yea,  and  pluck  ears  of 
corn  on  the  Sabbath,  for  no  other  reason  than  that  I  was 
fainting  for  lack  of  food.  For,  I  have  assurance  in  myself, 
that,  in  pardoning  these  faults  according  to  the  letter,  man 
exerts  the  sovereign  right  which  the  majesty  of  his  being 
confers  on  him;  he  sets  the  seal  of  his  divine  nature  to  the 
grace  he  accords."1 

Coleridge's  Translation. 


THE  TRANSCENDENTALIST  347 

In  like  manner,  if  there  is  anything  grand  and  daring  in 
human  thought  or  virtue,  any  reliance  on  the  vast,  the 
unknown;  any  presentiment,  any  extravagance  of  faith, 
the  spiritualist  adopts  it  as  most  in  nature.  The  oriental 
mind  has  always  tended  to  this  largeness.  Buddhism  is  an 
expression  of  it.  The  Buddhist  who  thanks  no  man,  who 
says,  "do  not  flatter  your  benefactors,"  but  who,  in  his 
conviction  that  every  good  deed  can  by  no  possibility  escape 
its  reward,  will  not  deceive  the  benefactor  by  pretending  that 
he  has  done  more  than  he  should,  is  a  Transcendentalist. 

You  will  see  by  this  sketch  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a 
Transcendental  party;  that  there  is  no  pure  Transcenden 
talist;  that  we  know  of  none  but  prophets  and  heralds  of 
such  a  philosophy ;  that  all  who  by  strong  bias  of  nature 
have  leaned  to  the  spiritual  side  in  doctrine,  have  stopped 
short  of  their  goal.  We  have  had  many  harbingers  ami 
forerunners;  but  of  a  purely  spiritual  life,  history  has  af 
forded  no  example.  I  mean,  we  have  yet  no  man  who  has 
leaned  entirely  on  his  character,  and  eaten  angel's  food, 
who,  trusting  to  his  sentiments,  found  life  made  of  miracles; 
who,  working  for  universal  aims,  found  himself  fed,  he  knew 
not  how :  clothed,  sheltered,  and  weaponed,  he  knew  not  how, 
and  yet  it  was  done  by  his  own  hands.  Only  in  the  instinct 
of  the  lower  animals,  we  find  the  suggestion  of  the  methods  of 
it,  and  something  higher  than  our  understanding.  The 
squirrel  hoards  nuts,  and  the  bee  gathers  honey,  without 
knowing  what  they  do,  and  they  are  thus  provided  for  with 
out  selfishness  or  disgrace. 

Shall  we  say,  then,  that  Transcendentalism"  is  the  Saturna 
lia  or  excess  of  Faith;  the  presentiment  of  a  faith  proper  to 
man  in  his  integrity,  excessive  only  when  his  imperfect  obe 
dience  hinders  the  satisfaction  of  his  wish.  Nature  is 
transcendental,  exists  primarily,  necessarily,  ever  works  and 
advances,  yet  takes  no  thought  for  the  morrow.  Man  owns 
the  dignity  of  the  life  which  throbs  around  him  in  chemistry, 
and  tree,  and  animal,  and  in  the  involuntary  functions  of 
his  own  body;  yet  he  is  balked  when  he  tries  to  fling  himself 
into  this  enchanted  circle,  where  all  is  done  without  deg 
radation.  Yet  genius  and  virtue  predict  in  man  the  same 


348  THE  TRANSCENDENTALIST 

absence  of  private  ends,  and  of  condescension  to  circum 
stances,  united  with  every  trait  and  talent  of  beauty  and 
power. 

This  way  of  thinking,  falling  on  Roman  times,  made 
Stoic  philosophers;  falling  on  despotic  times,  made  patriot 
Catos  and  Brutuses;  falling  on  superstitious  times,  made 
prophets  and  apostles;  on  popish  times,  made  protestants 
and  ascetic  monks,  preachers  of  Faith  against  the  preachers 
of  Works;  on  prelatical  times,  made  Puritans  and  Quakers; 
and  falling  on  Unitarian  and  commercial  times,  makes 
the  peculiar  shades  of  Idealism  which  we  know. 

It  is  well  known  to  most  of  my  audience,  that  the  Idealism 
of  the  present  day  acquired  the  name  of  Transcendental, 
from  the  use  of  that  term  by  Immanuel  Kant,  of  Konig- 
berg,  who  replied  to  the  sceptical  philosophy  of  Locke, 
which  insisted  that  there  was  nothing  in  the  intellect  which 
was  not  previously  in  the  experience  of  the  senses,  by  show 
ing  that  there  was  a  very  important  class  of  ideas,  or  im 
perative  forms,  which  did  not  come  by  experience,  but 
through  which  experience  was  acquired;  that  these  were  in 
tuitions  of  the  mind  itself;  and  he  denominated  them  Trans- 
''^.cendental  forms.  The  extraordinary  profoundness  and  pre- 
'  cision  of  that  man's  thinking  have  given  vogue  to  his  nomen 
clature,  in  Europe  and  America,  to  that  extent,  that  what 
ever  belongs  to  the  class  of  intuitive  thought,  is  popularly 
called  at  the  present  day  Transcendental. 

Although,  as  we  have  said,  there  is  no  pure  Transcen- 
dentalist,  yet  the  tendency  to  respect  the  intuitions,  and 
to  give  them,  at  least  in  our  creed,  all  authority  over  our 
experience,  has  deeply  colored  the  conversation  and  poetry  of 
the  present  day;  and  the  history  of  genius  and  of  religion  in 
these  times,  though  impure,  and  as  yet  not  incarnated  in 
any  powerful  individual,  will  be  the  history  of  this  ten 
dency. 

It  is  a  sign  of  our  times,  conspicuous  to  the  coarsest  ob 
server,  that  many  intelligent  and  religious  persons  withdraw 
themselves  from  the  common  labors  and  competitions  of 
the  market  and  the  caucus,  and  betake  themselves  to  a 
certain  solitary  and  critical  way  of  living,  from  which  no 


THE  TRANSCENDENTALIST  349 

solid  fruit  has  yet  appeared  to  justify  their  separation. 
They  hold  themselves  aloof;  they  feel  the  disproportion  be 
tween  their  faculties  and  the  work  offered  them,  and  they 
prefer  to  ramble  in  the  country  and  perish  of  ennui,  to  the 
degradation  of  such  charities  and  such  ambitions  as  the  city 
can  propose  to  them.  They  are  striking  work,  and  crying 
out  for  somewhat  worthy  to  do !  What  they  do,  is  done  only 
because  they  are  overpowered  by  the  humanities  that  speak 
on  all  sides;  and  they  consent  to  such  labor  as  is  open  to 
them,  though  to  their  lofty  dream  the  writing  of  Iliads  or 
Hamlets,  or  the  building  of  cities  or  empires  seems  drudgery. 

Now  every  one  must  do  after  his  kind,  be  he  asp  or  angel, 
and  these  must.  The  question,  which  a  wise  man  and  a 
student  of  modern  history  will  ask,  is,  what  that  kind  is? 
And  truly,  as  in  ecclesiastical  history  we  take  so  much  pains 
to  know  what  the  Gnostics,  what  the  Essenes,  what  the 
Manichees,  and  what  the  Reformers  believed,  it  would  not 
misbecome  us  to  inquire  nearer  home,  what  these  companions 
and  contemporaries  of  ours  think  and  do,  at  least  so  far  as 
these  thoughts  and  actions  appear  to  be  net  accidental  and 
personal,  but  common  to  many,  and  the  inevitable  flower  of 
the  Tree  of  Time.  Our  American  literature  and  spiritual 
history  are,  we  confess,  in  the  optative  mood;  but  whoso 
knows  these  seething  brains,  these  admirable  radicals,  these 
unsocial  worshippers,  these  talkers  who  talk  the  sun  and  moon 
away,  will  believe  that  this  heresy  cannot  pass  away  without 
leaving  its  mark. 

They  are  lonely;  the  spirit  of  their  writing  and  conver 
sation  is  lonely;  they  repel  influences;  they  shun  general 
society;  they  incline  to  shut  themselves  in  their  chamber  in 
the  house,  to  live  in  the  country  rather  than  in  the  town, 
and  to  find  their  tasks  and  amusements  in  solitude.  Society, 
to  be  sure,  does  not  like  this  very  well ;  it  saith,  Whoso  goes 
to  walk  alone,  accuses  the  whole  world;  he  declareth  all  to 
be  unfit  to  be  his  companions;  it  is  very  uncivil,  nay,  in 
sulting;  Society  will  retaliate.  Meantime,  this  retirement 
does  not  proceed  from  any  whim  on  the  part  of  these  separa 
tors;  but  if  any  one  will  take  pains  to  talk  with  them, 
he  will  fincl  that  this  part  is  chosen  both  from  temperament 


350  THE  TRANSCENDENTALIST 

and  from  principle;  with  some  unwillingness,  too,  and  as  a 
choice  of  the  less  of  two  evils;  for  these  persons  are  not  by 
nature  melancholy,  sour,  and  unsocial, — they  are  not  stockish 
or  brute, — but  joyous,  susceptible,  affectionate;  they  have 
even  more  than  others  a  great  wish  to  be  loved.  Like  the 
young  Mozart,  they  are  rather  ready  to  cry  ten  times  a  day, 
"But  are  you  sure  you  love  me?"  Nay,  if  they  tell  you  their 
whole  thought,  they  will  own  that  love  seems  to  them  the 
last  and  highest  gift  of  nature;  that  there  are  persons  whom 
in  their  hearts  they  daily  thank  for  existing, — persons 
whose  faces  are  perhaps  unknown  to  them,  but  whose  fame 
and  spirit  have  penetrated  their  solitude, — and  for  whose 
sake  they  wish  to  exist.  To  behold  the  beauty  of  another 
character,  which  inspires  a  new  interest  in  our  own;  to 
behold  the  beauty  lodged  in  a  human  being,  with  such 
vivacity  of  apprehension  that  I  am  instantly  forced  home  to 
inquire  if  I  am  not  deformity  itself:  to  behold  in  another 
the  expression  of  a  love  so  high  that  it  assures  itself, — 
assures  itself  also  to  me  against  every  possible  casualty 
except  my  unworthiness ; — these  are  degrees  on  the  scale 
of  human  happiness,  to  which  they  have  ascended;  and  it 
is  a  fidelity  to  this  sentiment  which  has  made  common  asso 
ciation  distasteful  to  them.  They  wish  a  just  and  even 
fellowship,  or  none.  They  cannot  gossip  with  you,  and  they 
do  not  wish,  as  they  are  sincere  and  religious,  to  gratify 
any  mere  curiosity  which  you  may  entertain.  Like  fairies, 
they  do  not  wish  to  be  spoken  of.  Love  me,  they  say,  but 
do  not  ask  who  is  my  cousin  and  my  uncle.  If  you  do  not 
need  to  hear  my  thought,  because  you  can  read  it  in  my  face 
and  behavior,  then  I  will  tell  it  you  from  sunrise  to  sunset. 
If  you  cannot  divine  it,  you  would  not  understand  what  I 
say.  I  will  not  molest  myself  for  you.  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
profaned. 

And  yet,  it  seems  as  if  this  loneliness,  and  not  this  lover 
would  prevail  in  their  circumstances,  because  of  the  extrav 
agant  demand  they  make  on  human  nature.  That,  indeed, 
constitutes  a  new  feature  in  their  portrait,  that  they  are  the 
most  exacting  and  extortionate  critics.  Their  qiiarrel  with 
every  man  they  meet,  is  not  with  his  kind,  but  with  his 


THE  TRANSCENDENTALIST  351 

degree.  There  is  not  enough  of  him, — that  is  the  only  fault. 
They  prolong  their  privilege  of  childhood  in  this  wise,  of 
doing  nothing, — but  making  immense  demands  on  all  the 
gladiators  in  the  lists  of  action  and  fame.  They  make  us 
feel  the  strange  disappointment  which  overcasts  every 
human  youth.  So  many  promising  youths,  and  never  a 
finished  man !  The  profound  nature  will  have  a  savage  rude 
ness;  the  delicate  one  will  be  shallow,  or  the  victim  of 
sensibility;  the  richly  accomplished  will  have  some  capital 
absurdity;  and  so  every  piece  has  a  crack.  'T  is  strange, 
but  this  masterpiece  is  a  result  of  such  an  extreme  delicacy, 
that  the  most  unobserved  flaw  in  the  boy  will  neutralize  the 
most  aspiring  genius,  and  spoil  the  work.  Talk  with  a 
seaman  of  the  hazards  to  life  in  his  profession,  and  he  will 
ask  you,  "Where  are  the  old  sailors?  do  you  not  see  that 
all  are  young  men?"  And  we,  on  this  sea  of  human  thought, 
in  like  manner  inquire,  Where  are  the  old  idealists  ?  where  are 
they  who  represented  to  the  last  generation  that  extravagant 
hope,  which  a  few  happy  aspirants  suggest  to  ours?  In 
looking  at  the  class  of  counsel,  and  power,  and  wealth,  and 
at  the  matronage  of  the  land,  amidst  all  the  prudence  and  all 
the  triviality,  one  asks,  Where  are  they  who  represented 
genius,  virtue,  the  invisible  and  heavenly  world,  to  these? 
Are  they  dead, — taken  in  early  ripeness  to  the  gods, — as  an 
cient  wisdom  foretold  their  fate,  Or  did  the  high  idea  die 
out  of  them,  and  leave  their  unperfumed  body  as  its  tomb 
and  tablet,  announcing  to  all  that  the  celestial  inhabitant, 
who  once  gave  them  beauty,  had  departed?  Will  it  be 
better  with  the  new  generation?  We  easily  predict  a  fair 
future  to  each  new  candidate  who  enters  the  lists,  but  we  are 
frivolous  and  volatile,  and  by  low  aims  and  ill  example  do 
what  we  can  to  defeat  this  hope.  Then  these  youths  bring 
us  a  rough  but  effectual  aid.  By  their  unconcealed  dis 
satisfaction,  they  expose  our  poverty,  and  the  insignificance 
of  man  to  man.  A  man  is  a  poor  limitary  benefactor. 
He  ought  to  be  a  shower  of  benefits — a  great  influence,  which 
should  never  let  his  brother  go,  but  should  refresh  old 
merits  continually  with  new  ones;  so  that,  though  absent,  he 
should  never  be  out  of  my  mind,  his  name  never  far 


352  THE  TRANSCENDENTALIST 

from  my  lips;  but  if  the  earth  should  open  at  my  side,  or 
my  last  hour  were  come,  his  name  should  be  the  prayer  I 
should  utter  to  the  Universe.  But  in  our  experience,  man 
is  cheap,  and  friendship  wants  its  deep  sense.  We  affect  to 
dwell  with  our  friends  in  their  absence,  but  we  do  not;  when 
deed,  word,  or  letter  comes  not,  they  let  us  go.  These  ex 
acting  children  advertise  us  of  our  wants.  There  is  no 
compliment,  no  smooth  speech  with  them;  they  pay  you 
only  this  one  compliment,  of  insatiable  expectation;  they 
aspire,  they  severely  exact,  and  if  they  only  stand  fast  in 
this  watch-tower,  and  persist  in  demanding  unto  the  end, 
and  without  end,  then  are  they  terrible  friends,  whereof 
poet  and  priest  cannot  choose  but  stand  in  awe;  and  what  if 
they  eat  clouds,  and  drink  wind,  they  have  not  been  without 
service  to  the  race  of  man. 

With  this  passion  for  what  is  great  and  extraordinary,  it 
cannot  be  wondered  at,  that  they  are  repelled  by  vulgarity 
and  frivolity  in  people.  They  say  to  themselves,  It  is  better 
to  be  alone  than  in  bad  company.  And  it  is  really  a  wish 
to  be  met, — the  wish  to  find  society  for  their  hope  and  re 
ligion, — which  prompts  them  to  shun  what  is  called  society. 
They  feel  that  they  are  never  so  fit  for  friendship,  as  when 
they  have  quitted  mankind,  and  taken  themselves  to  friend. 
A  picture,  a  book,  a  favorite  spot  in  the  hills  or  the  woods, 
which  they  can  people  with  the  fair  and  worthy  creation  of 
the  fancy,  can  give  them  often  forms  so  vivid,  that  these  for 
the  time  shall  seem  real,  and  society  the  illusion. 

But  their  solitary  and  fastidious  manners  not  only  with 
draw  them  from  the  conversation,  but  from  the  labors  of 
the  world;  they  are  not  good  citizens,  not  good  members  of 
society;  unwillingly  they  bear  their  part  of  the  public  and 
private  burdens;  they  do  not  willingly  share  in  the  public 
charities,  in  the  public  religious  rites,  in  the  enterprises  of 
education,  of  missions  foreign  or  domestic,  in  the  abolition 
of  the  slave-trade,  or  in  the  temperance  society.  They  do 
not  even  like  to  vote.  The  philanthropists  inquire  whether 
Transcendentalism  does  not  mean  sloth:  they  had  as  lief 
hear  that  their  friend  is  dead,  as  that  he  is  a  Transcendental- 
ist;  for  then  is  he  paralyzed,  and  can  never  do  anything  for 


THE  TRANSCENDENTALIST  353 

humanity.  What  right,  cries  the  good  world,  has  the  man  of 
genius  to  retreat  from  work,  and  indulge  himself?  The 
popular  literary  creed  seems  to  be,  "I  am  a  sublime  genius; 
I  ought  not  therefore  to  labor."  But  genius  is  the  power  to 
labor  better  and  more  availably.  Deserve  thy  genius;  exalt  it. 
The  good,  the  illuminated,  sit  apart  from  the  rest,  censuring 
their  dullness  and  vices,  as  if  they  thought  that,  by  sitting 
very  grand  in  their  chairs,  the  very  brokers,  attorneys,  and 
congressmen  would  see  the  error  of  their  ways,  and  flock 
to  them.  But  the  good  and  wise  must  learn  to  act,  and  carry 
salvation  to  the  combatants  and  demagogues  in  the  dusty 
arena  below. 

On  the  part  of  these  children,  it  is  replied,  that  life  and 
their  faculty  seem  to  them  gifts  too  rich  to  be  squandered 
on  such  trifles  as  you  propose  to  them.  What  you  call  your 
fundamental  institutions,  your  great  and  holy  causes,  seem 
to  them  great  abuses,  and,  when  nearly  seen,  paltry  matters. 
Each  "Cause,"  as  it  is  called, — say  Abolition,  Temperance, 
say  Calvinism,  or  Unitarianism, — becomes  speedily  a  little 
shop,  where  the  article,  let  it  have  been  at  first  never  so 
subtle  and  ethereal,  is  now  made  up  into  portable  and  con 
venient  cakes,  and  retailed  in  small  quantities  to  suit  pur 
chasers.  You  make  very  free  use  of  these  words,  "great" 
and  "holy"  but  few  things  appear  to  them  such.  Few 
persons  have  any  magnificence  of  nature  to  inspire  en 
thusiasm,  and  the  philanthropies  and  charities  have  a  cer 
tain  air  of  quackery.  As  to  the  general  course  of  living, 
and  the  daily  employments  of  men,  they  cannot  see  much 
virtue  in  these,  since  they  are  parts  of  this  vicious  circle; 
and  as  no  great  ends  are  answered  by  the  men,  there  is 
nothing  noble  in  the  arts  by  which  they  are  maintained.  Nay, 
they  have  made  the  experiment,  and  found  that,  from  the 
liberal  professions  to  the  coarsest  manual  labor,  and  from 
the  courtesies  of  the  academy  and  the  college  to  the  con 
ventions  of  the  cotillon-room  and  the  morning  call,  there  is 
a  spirit  of  cowardly  compromise  and  seeming,  which  in 
timates  a  frightful  skepticism,  a  life  without  love,  and  an 
activity  without  an  aim. 

Unless  the  action  is  necessary,  unless  it  is  adequate- 


354  THE  TRANSCENDENTALIST 

I  do  not  wish  to  perform  it.  I  do  not  wish  to  do  one  thing 
but  once.  I  do  not  love  routine.  Once  possessed  of  the 
principle,  it  is  equally  easy  to  make  four  or  forty  thousand 
applications  of  it.  A  great  man  will  be  content  to  have 
indicated  in  any  the  slightest  manner  his  perception  of  the 
reigning  Idea  of  his  time,  and  will  leave  to  those  who  like  it 
the  multiplication  of  examples.  When  he  has  hit  the  white, 
the  rest  may  shatter  the  target.  Everything  admonishes 
us  how  needlessly  long  life  is.  Every  moment  of  a  hero  so 
raises  and  cheers  us,  that  a  twelvemonth  is  an  age.  All  that 
the  brave  Xanthus  brings  home  from  his  wars,  is  the  recol 
lection  that,  at  the  storming  of  Samos,  "in  the  heat  of  the 
battle,  Pericles  smiled  on  me,  and  passed  on  to  another 
detachment."  It  is  the  quality  of  the  moment,  not  the 
number  of  days,  of  events,  or  of  actors,  that  imports. 

New,  we  confess,  and  by  no  means  happy,  is  our  condition : 
if  you  want  the  aid  of  our  labor,  we  ourselves  stand  in 
greater  want  of  the  labor.  We  are  miserable  with  inaction. 
We  perish  of  rest  and  rust :  but  we  do  not  like  your  work. 

"Then,"  says  the  world,  "show  me  your  own." 

"We  have  none." 

"What  will  you  do,  then?"  cries  the  world. 

"We  will  wait." 

"How  long?" 

"Until  the  Universe  rises  up  and  calls  us  to  work." 

"But  whilst  you  wait,  you  grow  old  and  useless." 

"Be  it  so:  I  can  sit  in  a  corner  and  perish,  (as  you  call 
it,)  but  I  will  not  move  until  I  have  the  highest  command. 
If  no  call  should  come  for  years,  for  centuries,  then  I  know 
that  the  want  of  the  Universe  is  the  attestation  of  faith  by 
my  abstinence.  Your  virtuous  projects,  so  called,  do  not 
cheer  me.  I  know  that  which  shall  come  will  cheer  me.  If 
I  cannot  work,  at  least  I  need  not  lie./  All  that  is  clearly 
due  to-day  is  not  to  lie.  In  other  places,  other  men  have 
encountered  sharp  trials,  and  have  behaved  themselves  well. 
The  martyrs  were  sawn  asunder,  or  hung  alive  on  meat- 
hooks.  Cannot  we  screw  our  courage  to  patience  and  truth, 
ind  without  complaint,  or  even  with  good-humor,  await 
our  turn  of  action  in  the  Infinite  Counsels?" 


THE  TRANSCENDENTALIST  355 

But,  to  come  a  little  closer  to  the  secret  of  these  persons, 
we  must  say,  that  to  them  it  seems  a  very  easy  matter  to 
answer  the  objections  of  the  man  of  the  world,  but  not  so 
easy  to  dispose  of  the  doubts  and  objections  that  occur  to 
themselves.  They  are  exercised  in  their  own  spirit  with 
queries,  which  acquaint  them  with  all  adversity,  and  with 
the  trials  of  the  bravest  heroes.  When  I  asked  them  con 
cerning  their  private  experience,  they  answered  somewhat  in 
this  wise:  It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  there  must  be  some 
wide  difference  between  my  faith  and  other  faith;,  and  mine 
is  a  certain  brief  experience,  which  surprised  me  in  the 
highway  or  in  the  market,  in  some  place,  at  some  time, — 
whether  in  the  body  or  out  of  the  body,  God  knoweth, — 
and  made  me  aware  that  I  had  played  the  fool  with  fools 
all  this  time,  but  that  law  existed  for  me  and  for  all;  that 
to  me  belong  trust,  a  child's  trust  and  obedience,  and  the 
worship  of  ideas,  and  I  should  never  be  fool  more.  Well 
in  the  space  of  an  hour,  probably,  I  was  let  down  from  this 
height;  I  was  at  my  old  tricks,  the  selfish  member  of  a  selfish 
society.  My  life  is  superficial,  takes  no  root  in  the  deep 
world;  I  ask,  When  shall  I  die,  and  be  relieved  of  the  re 
sponsibility  of  seeing  an  Universe  which  I  do  not  use?  I 
wish  to  exchange  this  flash-of-lightning  faith  for  continuous 
day-light,  this  fever-glow  for  a  benign  climate. 

These  two  states  of  thought  diverge  every  moment,  and 
stand  in  wild  contrast.  To  him  who  looks  at  his  life  from 
these  moments  of  illumination,  it  will  seem  that  he  skulks 
and  plays  a  mean,  shiftless,  and  subaltern  part  in  the  world. 
That  is  to  be  done  which  he  has  not  skill  to  do,  or  to  be 
said  which  others'  can  say  better,  and  he  lies  by,  or  occupies 
his  hands  with  some  plaything,  until  his  hour  comes  again. 
Much  of  our  reading,  much  of  our  labor,  seems  mere  waiting : 
it  was  not  that  we  were  born  for.  Any  other  could  do  it  as 
well,  or  better.  So  little  skill  enters  into  these  works,  so 
little  do  they  mix  with  the  divine  life,  that  it  really  signifies 
little  what  we  do,  whether  we  turn  a  grindstone,  or  ride,  or 
run,  or  make  fortunes,  or  govern  the  state.  The  worst 
feature  of  this  double  consciousness  is,  that  the  two  lives, 
of  the  understanding  and  of  the  soul,  which  we  lead,  really 


356  THE  TRANSCENDENTALIST 

show  very  little  relation  to  each  other,  never  meet  and 
measure  each  other:  one  prevails  now,  all  buzz  and  din,  and 
the  other  prevails  then,  all  infinitude  and  paradise;  and,  with 
the  progress  of  life,  the  two  discover  no  greater  disposition 
to  reconcile  themselves.  Yet,  what  is  my  faith?  What  am 
I?  What  but  a  thought  of  serenity  and  independence,  an 
abode  in  the  deep  blue  sky  ?  Presently  the  clouds  shut  down 
again;  yet  we  retain  the  belief  that  this  petty  web  we  weave 
will  at  last  be  overshot  and  reticulated  with  veins  of  the 
blue,  and  that  the  moments  will  characterize  the  days. 
Patience,  then,  is  for  us,  is  it  not?  Patience  and  still 
patience.  When  we  pass,  as  presently  we  shall,  into  some 
new  infinitude,  out  of  this  Iceland  of  negations,  it  will 
please  us  to  reflect  that,  though  we  had  few  virtues  or 
consolations,  we  bore  with  our  indigence,  nor  once  strove 
to  repair  it  with  hypocrisy  or  false  heat  of  any  kind. 

But  this  class  are  not  sufficiently  characterized,  if  we  omit 
to  add  that  they  are  lovers  and  worshipers  of  Beauty.  In 
the  eternal  trinity  of  Truth,  Goodness,  and  Beauty,  each  in 
its  perfection  including  the  three,  they  prefer  to  make  Beauty 
the  sign  and  head.  Something  of  the  same  taste  is  obser 
vable  in  all  tfce  moral  movements  of  the  time,  in  the  re 
ligious  and  tyefievolent  enterprises.  They  have  a  liberal,  even 
an  aesthetic  siirit.  A  reference  to  Beauty  in  action  sounds, 
to  be  sure,  a  Jjjfctle  hollow  and  ridiculous  in  the  ears  of  the 
old  church.  JEn.  politics,  it  has  often  .sufficed,  when  they 
treated  of  justice,  if  they  kept  the  bounds  of  selfish  calcula 
tion.  If  they  granted  restitution,  it  was  prudence  which 
granted  it.  But  the  justice  which  is  now  claimed  for  the 
black,  and  the  pauper,  and  the  drunkard  is  for  Beauty, — 
is  for  a  necessity  to  the  soul  of  the  agent,  not  of  the  bene 
ficiary.  I  say,  this  is  the  tendency,  not  yet  the  realization. 
Our  virtue  totters  and  trips,  does  not  yet  walk  firmly.  Its 
representatives  are  austere;  they  preach  and  denounce;  their 
rectitude  is  not  yet  a  grace.  They  are  still  liable  to  that 
slight  taint  of  burlesque  which,  in  our  strange  world,  attaches 
to  the  zealot.  A  saint  should  be  as  dear  as  the  apple  of  the 
eye.  Yet  we  are  tempted  to  smile,  and  we  flee  from  the 
working  to  the  speculative  reformer,  to  escape  that  same 


THE  TRANSCENDENTALIST  357 

slight  ridicule.  Alas  for  these  days  of  derision  and  criticism! 
We  call  the  Beautiful  the  highest,  because  it  appears  to 
us  the  golden  mean,  escaping  the  dowdiness  of  the  good,  and 
the  heartlessness  of  the  true. — They  are  lovers  of  nature 
also,  and  find  an  indemnity  in  the  inviolable  order  of  the 
world  for  the  violated  order  and  grace  of  man. 

There  is,  no  doubt,  a  great  deal  of  well-founded  objection 
to  be  spoken  or  felt  against  the  sayings  and  doings  of  this 
class,  some  of  whose  traits  we  have  selected;  no  doubt,  they 
will  lay  themselves  open  to  criticism  and  to  lampoons,  and 
as  ridiculous  stories  will  be  to  be  told  of  them  as  of  any. 
There  will  be  cant  and  pretension;  there  will  be  subtilty  and 
moonshine.  These  persons  are  of  unequal  strength,  and  do 
not  all  prosper.  They  complain  that  everything  around 
them  must  be  denied;  and  if  feeble,  it  takes  all  their  strength 
to  deny,  before  they  can  begin  to  lead  their  own  life.  Grave 
seniors  insist  on  their  respect  to  this  institution,  and  that 
usage;  to  an  obsolete  history;  to  some  vocation,  or  college, 
or  etiquette,  or  beneficiary,  or  charity,  or  morning  or  even 
ing  call,  which  they  resist,  as  what  does  not  concern  them. 
But  it  costs  such  sleepless  nights,  alienations  and  misgivings, 
— they  have  so  many  moods  about  it; — these  old  guardians 
never  change  their  minds;  they  have  but  one  mood  on  their 
subject,  namely,  that  Antony  is  very  perverse, — that  it  is 
quite  as  much  as  Antony  can  do,  to  assert  his  rights,  abstain 
from  what  he  thinks  foolish,  and  keep  his  temper.  He  can 
not  help  the  reaction  of  this  injustice  in  his  own  mind.  He 
is  braced-up  and  stilted;  all  freedom  and  flowing  genius, 
all  sallies  of  wit  and  frolic  nature  are  quite  out  of  the  ques 
tion;  it  is  well  if  he  can  keep  from  lying,  injustice,  and 
suicide.  This  is  no  time  for  gayety  and  grace.  His  strength 
and  spirits  are  wasted  in  rejection.  But  the  strong  spirits 
overpower  those  around  them  without  effort.  Their 
thought  and  emotion  comes  in  like  a  flood,  quite  withdraws 
them  from  all  notice  of  these  carping  critics;  they  surrender 
themselves  with  glad  heart  to  the  heavenly  guide,  and  only 
by  implication  reject  the  clamorous  nonsense  of  the  hour. 
Grave  serious  talk  to  the  deaf, — church  and  old  book 
mumble  and  ritualize  to  an  unheeding,  preoccupied  and 


358  THE  TRANSCENDENTALIST 

advancing  mind,  and  thus  they  by  happiness  of  greater 
momentum  lose  no  time,  but  take  the  right  road  at  first. 

But  all  these  of  whom  I  speak  are  not  proficients;  they 
are  novices;  they  only  show  the  road  in  which  man  should 
travel,  when  the  soul  has  greater  health  and  prowess.  Yet 
let  them  feel  the  dignity  of  their  charge,  and  deserve  a 
larger  power.  Their  heart  is  the  ark  in  which  the  fire  is 
concealed,  which  shall  burn  in  a  broader  and  universal  flame. 
Let  them  obey  the  Genius  then  most  when  his  impulse  is 
wildest;  then  most  when  he  seems  to  lead  to  uninhabitable 
deserts  of  thought  and  life;  for  the  path  which  the  hero 
travels  alone  is  the  highway  of  health  and  benefit  to  man 
kind.  What  is  the  privilege  and  nobility  of  our  nature,  but 
its  persistency,  through  its  power  to  attach  itself  to  what 
is  permanent? 

Society  also  has  its  duties  in  reference  to  this  class,  and 
must  behold  them  with  what  charity  it  can.  Possibly 
some  benefit  may  yet  accrue  from  them  to  the  state.  In 
our  Mechanics'  Fair,  there  must  be  not  only  bridges,  ploughs, 
carpenter's  planes,  and  baking  troughs,  but  also  some  few 
finer  instruments, — raingauges,  thermometers,  and  tele 
scopes;  and  in  society,  besides  farmers,  sailors,  and  weavers, 
there  must  be  a  few  persons  of  purer  fire  kept  specially  as 
gauges  and  meters  of  character;  persons  of  a  fine,  detecting 
instinct,  who  betray  the  smallest  accumulations  of  wit  and 
feeling  in  the  bystander.  Perhaps  too  there  might  be  room 
for  the  exciters  and  monitors;  collectors  of  the  heavenly 
spark  with  power  to  convey  the  electricity  to  others.  Or, 
as  the  storm-tossed  vessel  at  sea  speaks  the  frigate  or  "line 
packet"  to  learn  its  longitude,  so  it  may  not  be  without  its 
advantage  that  we  should  now  and  then  encounter  rare  and 
(gifted  men,  to  compare  the  points  of  our  spiritual  compass, 
(and  verify  our  bearings  from  superior  chronometers. 

Amidst  the  downward  tendency  and  proneness  of  things, 
when  every  voice  is  raised  for  a  new  road  or  another  statute, 
or  a  subscription  of  stock,  for  an  improvement  in  dress,  or  in 
dentistry,  for  a  new  house  or  a  larger  business,  for  a  political 
party,  or  the  division  of  an  estate, — will  you  not  tolerate  one 
or  two  solitary  voices  in  the  land,  speaking  for  thoughts 


THE  TRANSCENDENTALIST  359 

and  principles  not  marketable  or  perishable?  Soon  these 
improvements  and  mechanical  inventions  will  be  superseded; 
these  modes  of  living  lost  out  of  memory;  these  cities  rotted, 
ruined  by  war,  by  new  inventions,  by  new  seats  of  trade,  or 
the  geologic  changes: — all  gone,  like  the  shells  which  sprinkle 
the  sea-beach  with  a  white  colony  to-day,  forever  renewed  to 
be  forever  destroyed.  But  the  thoughts  which  these  few 
hermits  strove  to  proclaim  by  silence,  as  well  as  by  speech, 
not  only  by  what  they  did,  but  by  what  they  forbore  to  do, 
shall  abide  in  beauty  and  strength  to  reorganize  themselves 
in  nature,  to  invest  themselves  anew  in  other,  perhaps 
higher  endowed  and  happier  mixed  clay  than  ours,  in  fuller 
union  with  the  surrounding  system. 


XIX 
MONTAIGNE;  OR,  THE  SKEPTIC 

EVERY  fact  is  related  on  one  side  to  sensation,  and,  on  the 
other,  to  morals.  The  game  of  thought  is,  on  the  appearance 
of  one  of  these  two  sides,  to  find  the  other;  given  the  upper, 
to  find  the  under  side.  Nothing  so  thin,  but  has  these  two 
faces;  and,  when  the  observer  has  seen  the  obverse,  he  turns 
it  over  to  see  the  reverse. 

Life  is  a  pitching  of  this  penny,— heads  or  tails.  We 
never  tire  of  this  game,  because  there  is  still  a  slight  shudder 
of  astonishment  at  the  exhibition  of  the  other  face,  at  the 
contrast  of  the  two  faces.  A  man  is  flushed  with  success, 
and  bethinks  himself  what  this  good  luck  signifies.  He 
drives  his  bargain  in  the  street;  but  it  occurs,  that  he  also 
is  bought  and  sold.  He  sees  the  beauty  of  a  human  face, 
and  searches  the  cause  of  that  beauty,  which  must  be  more 
beautiful.  He  builds  his  fortunes,  maintains  the  laws, 
cherishes  his  children;  but  he  asks  himself,  why?  and  where 
to?  This  head  and  this  tail  are  called,  in  the  language  of 
philosophy,  Infinite  and  Finite;  Relative  and  Absolute; 
Apparent  and  Real;  and  many  fine  names  beside. 

Each  man  is  born  with  a  predisposition  to  one  or  the 
other  of  these  sides  of  nature;  and  it  will  easily  happen  that 
men  will  be  found  devoted  to  one  or  the  other.  One  class 
has  the  perception  of  difference,  and  is  conversant  with  facts 
and  surfaces;  cities  and  persons;  and  the  bringing  certain 
things  to  pass; — the  men  of  talent  and  action.  Another 
class  have  the  perception  of  identity,  and  are  men  of  faith 
and  philosophy,  men  of  genius. 

Each  of  these  riders  drives  too  fast.  Plotinus  believes 
only  in  philosophers;  Fenelon,  in  saints;  Pindar  and  Byron, 
in  poets.  Read  the  haughty  language  in  which  Plato  and  the 

360 


MONTAIGNE:    OR,   THE   SKEPTIC          361 

Platonists  speak  of  all  men  who  are  not  devoted  to  their 
own  shining  abstractions:  other  men  are  rats  and  mice.  The 
literary  class  is  usually  proud  and  exclusive.  The  corre 
spondence  of  Pope  and  Swift  describes  mankind  around  them 
as  monsters;  and  that  of  Goethe  and  Schiller,  in  our  own 
time,  is  scarcely  more  kind. 

It  is  easy  to  see  how  this  arrogance  comes.  The  genius 
is  a  genius  by  the  first  look  he  casts  on  any  object.  Is  his 
eye  creative?  Does  he  not  rest  in  angles  and  colors,  but 
beholds  the  design, — he  will  presently  undervalue  the  actual 
object.  In  powerful  moments,  his  thought  has  dissolved 
the  works  of  art  and  nature  into  their  causes,  so  that  the 
works  appear  heavy  and  faulty.  He  has  a  conception  of 
beauty  which  the  sculptor  cannot  embody.  Picture,  statue, 
temple,  railroad,  steam-engine,  existed  first  in  an  artist's 
mind,  without  flaw,  mistake,  or  friction,  which  impair  the 
executed  models.  So  did  the  church,  the  state,  college,  court, 
social  circle,  and  all  the  institutions.  It  is  not  strange  that 
these  men,  remembering  what  they  have  seen  and  hoped  of 
ideas,  should  affirm  disdainfully  the  superiority  of  ideas. 
Having  at  some  time  seen  that  the  happy  soul  will  carry  all 
the  arts  in  power,  they  say,  Why  cumber  ourselves  with 
superfluous  realizations?  and,  like  dreaming  beggars,  they 
assume  to  speak  and  act  ae  if  these  values  were  already  sub 
stantiated. 

On  the  other  part,  the  men  of  toil  and  trade  and  luxury, — 
the  animal  world,  including  the  animal  in  the  philosopher 
and  poet  also, — and  the  practical  world,  including  the  pain 
ful  drudgeries  which  are  never  excused  to  philosopher  or 
poet  any  more  than  to  the  rest, — weigh  heavily  on  the  other 
side.  The  trade  in  our  streets  believes  in  no  metaphysical 
causes,  thinks  nothing  of  the  force  which  necessitated  traders 
and  a  trading  planet  to  exist:  no,  but  sticks  to  cotton, 
sugar,  wool,  and  salt.  The  ward  meetings,  on  election  days, 
are  not  softened  by  any  misgiving  of  the  value  of  these  bal- 
lotings.  Hot  life  is  streaming  in  a  single  direction.  To  the 
men  of  this  world,  to  the  animal  strength  and  spirits,  to  the 
men  of  practical  power,  whilst  immersed  in  it,  the  man  of 
ideas  appears  out  of  his  reason.  They  alone  have  reason. 


362          MONTAIGNE:    OR,  THE   SKEPTIC 

Things  always  bring  their  own  philosophy  with  them,  that 
is,  prudence.  No  man  acquires  property  without  acquiring 
with  it  a  little  arithmetic,  also.  In  England,  the  richest 
country  that  ever  existed,  property  stands  for  more,  com 
pared  with  personal  ability,  than  in  any  other.  After  din 
ner,  a  man  believes  less,  denies  more :  verities  have  lost  some 
charm.  After  dinner,  arithmetic  is  the  only  science:  ideas 
are  disturbing,  incendiary,  follies  of  young  men,  repudiated 
by  the  solid  portion  of  society:  and  a  man  comes  to  be 
valued  by  his  athletic  and  animal  qualities.  Spence  relates, 
that  Mr.  Pope  was  with  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller,  one  day,  when 
his  nephew,  a  Guinea  trader,  came  in.  "Nephew,"  said  Sir 
Godfrey,  "you  have  the  honor  of  seeing  the  two  greatest 
men  in  the  world."  "I  don't  know  how  great  men  you  may 
be,"  said  the  Guinea  man,  "but  I  don't  like  your  looks.  I 
have  often  bought  a  man  much  better  than  both  of  you,  all 
muscles  and  bones,  for  ten  guineas."  Thus,  the  men  of  the 
senses  revenge  themselvs  on  the  professors,  and  repay  scorn 
for  scorn.  The  first  had  leaped  to  conclusions  not  yet  ripe, 
and  say  more  than  is  true;  the  others  make  themselves 
merry  with  the  philosopher,  and  weigh  man  by  the  pound. — 
They  believe  that  mustard  bites  the  tongue,  that  pepper 
is  hot,  friction-matches  are  incendiary,  revolvers  to  be 
avoided,  and  suspenders  hold  up  pantaloons;  that  there  is 
much  sentiment  in  a  chest  of  tea;  and  a  man  will  be  elo 
quent,  if  you  give  him  good  wine.  Are  you  tender  and 
scrupulous, — you  must  eat  more  mince-pie.  They  hold  that 
Luther  had  milk  in  him  when  he  said, 

"Wer  nicht  liebt  Wein,  Weib,  imd  Gesang 
Der  bleibt  ein  Narr  sein  Leben  lang;" 

and  when  he  advised  a  young  scholar  perplexed  with 
fore-ordination  and  free-will,  to  get  well  drunk.  "The 
nerves,"  says  Cabanis,  "they  are  the  man."  My  neighbor,  a 
jolly  farmer,  in  the  tavern  bar-room,  thinks  that  the  use  of 
money  is  sure  and  speedy  spending.  "For  his  part,"  he 
says,  "he  puts  his  down  his  neck,  and  gets  the  good  of  it." 
The  inconvenience  of  this  way  of  thinking  is,  that  it  runs 
into  indifferentism  and  then  into  disgust.  Life  is  eating  us 


MONTAIGNE:    OR,  THE  SKEPTIC         363 

up.  We  shall  be  fables  presently.  Keep  cool:  it  will  be 
all  one  a  hundred  years  hence.  Life's  well  enough;  but  we 
shall  be  glad  to  get  out  of  it,  and  they  will  all  be  glad  to  have 
us.  Why  should  we  fret  and  drudge?  Our  meat  will  taste 
to-morrow  as  it  did  yesterday,  and  we  may  at  last  have  had 
enough  of  it.  "Ah,"  said  my  languid  gentleman  at  Oxford, 
"there's  nothing  new  or  true, — and  no  matter." 

With  a  little  more  bitterness,  the  cynic  moans :  our  life  is 
like  an  ass  led  to  market  by  a  bundle  of  hay  being  carried 
before  him :  he  sees  nothing  but  the  bundle  of  hay.  "There 
is  so  much  trouble  in  coming  into  the  world,"  said  Lord 
Bolingbroke,  "and  so  much  more,  as  well  as  meanness,  in 
going  out  of  it,  that  'tis  hardly  worth  while  to  be  here  at 
all."  I  knew  a  philosopher  of  this  kidney,  who  was  accus 
tomed  briefly  to  sum  up  his  experience  of  human  nature  in 
saying,  "Mankind  is  a  damned  rascal:"  and  the  natural 
corollary  is  pretty  sure  to  follow, — "The  world  lives  by 
humbug,  and  so  will  I." 

The  abstractionist  and  the  materialist  thus  mutually 
exasperating  each  other,  and  the  scoffer  expressing  the 
worst  of  materialism,  there  arises  a  third  party  to  occupy 
the  middle  ground  between  these  two,  the  skeptic,  namely. 
He  finds  both  wrong  by  being  in  extremes.  He  labors  to 
plant  his  feet,  to  be  the  beam  of  the  balance.  He  will  not  go 
beyond  his  card.  He  sees  the  one-sidedness  of  these  men  of 
the  street;  he  will  not  be  a  Gibeonite;  he  stands  for  the  in 
tellectual  faculties,  a  cool  head,  and  whatever  serves  to  keep 
it  cool :  no  unadvised  industry,  no  unrewarded  self-devotion, 
no  loss  of  the  brains  in  toil.  Am  Ian  ox,  or  a  dray? — You  are 
both  in  extremes,  he  says.  You  that  will  have  all  solid,  and 
a  world  of  pig-lead,  deceive  yourselves  grossly.  You  believe 
yourselves  rooted  and  grounded  on  adamant;  and  yet,  if 
we  uncover  the  last  facts  of  our  knowledge,  you  are  spinning 
like  bubbles  in  a  river,  you  know  not  whither  or  whence, 
and  you  are  bottomed  and  capped  and  wrapped  in  delusions. 

Neither  will  he  be  betrayed  to  a  book,  and  wrapped  in  a 
gown.  The  studious  class  are  their  own  victims:  they  are 
thin  and  pale,  their  feet  are  cold,  their  heads  are  hot,  the 
night  is  without  sleep,  the  day  a  fear  of  interruption, — 


364         MONTAIGNE:    OR,   THE  SKEPTIC 

pallor,  squalor,  hunger,  and  egotism.  If  you  come  near 
them,  and  see  what  conceits  they  entertain, — they  are 
abstractionists,  and  spend  their  days  and  nights  in  dreaming 
some  dreams;  in  expecting  the  homage  of  society  to  some  pre 
cious  scheme  built  on  a  truth,  but  destitute  of  proportion 
in  its  presentment,  of  justness  in  its  application,  and  of 
all  energy  of  will  in  the  schemer  to  embody  and  vitalize  it. 

But  I  see  plainly,  he  says,  that  I  cannot  see.  I  know 
that  human  strength  is  not  in  extremes,  but  in  avoiding 
extremes.  I,  at  least,  will  shun  the  weakness  of  philoso 
phizing  beyond  my  depth.  What  is  the  use  of  pretending 
to  powers  we  have  not?  What  is  the  use  of  pretending  to 
assurances  we  have  not,  respecting  the  other  life  ?  Why  ex 
aggerate  the  power  of  virtue  ?  Why  be  an  angel  before  your 
time?  These  strings,  wound  up  too  high,  will  snap.  If 
there  is  a  wish  for  immortality,  and  no  evidence,  why  not 
say  just  that?  If  there  are  conflicting  evidences,  why  not 
state  them?  If  there  is  not  ground  for  a  candid  thinker 
to  make  up  his  mind,  yea  or  nay, — why  not  suspend  the 
judgment?  I  weary  of  these  dogmatizers.  I  tire  of  these 
hacks  of  routine,  who  deny  the  dogmas.  I  neither  affirm 
nor  deny.  I  stand  here  to  try  the  case.  I  am  here  to  con 
sider,  o-KCTTTeiVjto  consider  how  it  is.  I  will  try  to  keep  the 
balance  true.  Of  what  use  to  take  the  chair,  and  glibly 
rattle  off  theories  of  societies,  religion,  and  nature,  when  I 
know  that  practical  objections  lie  in  the  way,  insurmountable 
by  me  and  by  my  mates  ?  Why  so  talkative  in  public,  when 
each  of  my  neighbors  can  pin  me  to  my  seat  by  arguments  I 
cannot  refute?  Why  pretend  that  life  is  so  simple  a  game, 
when  we  know  how  subtle  and  elusive  the  Proteus  is  ?  Why 
think  to  shut  up  all  things  in  your  narrow  coop,  when  we 
know  there  are  not  one  or  two  only,  but  ten,  twenty,  a 
thousand  things,  and  unlike?  Why  fancy  that  you  have 
all  the  truth  in  your  keeping?  There  is  much  to  say  on 
all  sides. 

Who  shall  forbid  a  wise  skepticism,  seeing  that  there  is 
no  practical  question  on  which  any  thing  more  than  an 
approximate  solution  can  be  had?  Is  not  marriage  an  open 
question,  when  it  is  alleged,  from  the  beginning  of  the  world. 


MONTAIGNE:    OR,   THE   SKEPTIC         365 

that  such  as  are  in  the  institution  wish  to  get  out,  and  such 
as  are  out  wish  to  get  in?  And  the  reply  of  Socrates,  to 
him  who  asked  whether  he  should  choose  a  wife,  still  remains 
reasonable,  "that,  whether  he  should  choose  one  or  not,  he 
would  repent  it."  Is  not  the  state  a  question?  All  so 
ciety  is  divided  in  opinion  on  the  subject  of  the  state.  No 
body  loves  it;  great  numbers  dislike  it,  and  suffer  con 
scientious  scruples  to  allegiance:  and  the  only  defence  set 
up,  is,  the  fear  of  doing  worse  in  disorganizing.  Is  it 
otherwise  with  the  church?  Or,  to  put  any  of  the  questions 
which  touch  mankind  nearest, — shall  the  young  man  aim 
at  a  leading  part  in  law,  in  politics,  in  trade  ?  It  will  not  be 
pretended  that  a  success  in  either  of  these  kinds  is  quite 
coincident  with  what  is  best  and  inmost  in  his  mind.  Shall 
he,  then,  cutting  the  stays  that  hold  him  fast  to  the  social 
state,  put  out  to  sea  with  no  guidance  but  his  genius  ?  There 
is  much  to  say  on  both  sides.  Remember  the  open  question 
between  the  present  order  of  "competition,"  and  the  friends 
of  "attractive  and  associated  labor."  The  generous  minds 
embrace  the  proposition  of  labor  shared  by  all;  it  is  the  only 
honesty;  nothing  else  is  safe.  It  is  from  the  poor  man's 
hut  alone,  that  strength  and  virtue  come:  and  yet,  on  the 
other  side,  it  is  alleged  that  labor  impairs  the  form,  and 
breaks  the  spirit  of  man,  and  the  laborers  cry  unanimously, 
"We  have  no  thoughts."  Culture,  how  indispensable!  I 
cannot  forgive  you  the  want  of  accomplishment;  and  yet, 
culture  will  instantly  destroy  that  chiefest  beauty  of  spon- 
taneousness.  Excellent  is  culture  for  a  savage;  but  once  let 
him  read  in  the  book,  and  he  is  no  longer  able  not  to 
think  of  Plutarch's  heroes.  In  short,  since  true  fortitude  of 
understanding  consists  "in  not  letting  what  we  know  be 
embarrassed  by  what  we  do  not  know,"  we  ought  to  secure 
those  advantages  which  we  can  command,  and  not  risk  them 
by  clutching  after  the  airy  and  unattainable.  Come,  no 
chimeras!  Let  us  go  abroad,  let  us  mix  in  affairs;  let  us 
learn,  and  get,  and  have,  and  climb.  "Men  are  a  sort  of 
moving  plants,  and,  like  trees,  receive  a  great  part  of  their 
nourishment  from  the  air.  If  they  keep  too  much  at  home, 
they  pine."  Let  us  have  a  robust,  manly  life,  let  us  know 


366         MONTAIGNE:    OR,   THE  SKEPTIC 

what  we  know,  for  certain;  what  we  have,  let  it  be  solid, 
and  seasonable,  and  our  own.  A  world  in  the  hand  is  worth 
two  in  the  bush.  Let  us  have  to  do  with  real  men  and 
women,  and  not  with  skipping  ghosts. 

This,  then,  is  the  right  ground  of  the  skeptic, — this  of 
consideration,  of  self -containing;  not  at  all  of  unbelief;  not 
at  all  of  universal  denying,  nor  of  universal  doubting, — 
doubting  even  that  he  doubts;  least  of  all,  of  scoffing  and 
profligate  jeering  at  all  that  is  stable  and  good.  These  are 
no  more  his  moods  than  are  those  of  religion  and  phil 
osophy.  He  is  the  considerer,  the  prudent,  taking  in  sail, 
counting  stock,  husbanding  his  means,  believing  that  a  man 
has  too  many  enemies,  than  that  he  can  afford  to  be  his  own; 
that  we  cannot  give  ourselves  too  many  advantages,  in  this 
unequal  conflict,  with  powers  so  vast  and  unweariable  ranged 
on  one  side,  and  this  little,  conceited,  vulnerable  popinjay 
that  a  man  is,  bobbing  up  and  down  into  every  danger,  on  the 
other.  It  is  a  position  taken  up  for  better  defence,  as  of 
more  safety,  and  one  that  can  be  maintained;  and  it  is  one 
of  more  opportunity  and  range:  as,  when  we  build  a  house, 
the  rule  is,  to  set  it  not  too  high  nor  too  low,  under  the  wind, 
but  out  of  the  dirt. 

The  philosophy  we  want  is  one  of  fluxions  and  mobility. 
The  Spartan  and  Stoic  schemes  are  too  stark  and  stiff  for 
our  occasion.  A  theory  of  Saint  John,  and  of  non-resistance, 
seems,  on  the  other  hand,  too  thin  and  aerial.  We  want 
some  coat  woven  of  elastic  steel,  stout  as  the  first,  and 
limber  as  the  second.  We  want  a  ship  in  these  billows  we 
inhabit.  An  angular,  dogmatic  house  would  be  rent  to  chips 
and  splinters,  in  this  storm  of  many  elements.  No,  it  must 
be  tight,  and  fit  to  the  form  of  man,  to  live  at  all;  as  a 
shell  is  the  architecture  of  a  house  founded  on  the  sea.  The 
soul  of  man  must  be  the  type  of  our  scheme,  just  as  the 
body  of  man  is  the  type  after  which  a  dwelling-house  is 
built.  Adaptiveness  is  the  peculiarity  of  human  nature.  We 
are  golden  averages,  volitant  stabilities,  compensated  or 
periodic  errors,  houses  founded  on  the  sea.  The  wise  skeptic 
wishes  to  have  a  near  view  of  the  best  game,  and  the  chief 
players;  what  is  best  in  the  planet;  art  and  nature,  places 


MONTAIGNE:    OR,   THE   SKEPTIC         367 

and  events,  but  mainly  men.  Every  thing  that  is  excellent 
in  mankind, — a  form  of  grace,  an  arm  of  iron,  lips  of  per 
suasion,  a  brain  of  resources,  every  one  skilful  to  play  and 
win, — he  will  see  and  judge. 

The  terms  of  admission  to  this  spectacle,  are,  that  he 
have  a  certain  solid  and  intelligible  way  of  living  of  his  own; 
some  method  of  answering  the  inevitable  needs  of  human 
life;  proof  that  he  has  played  with  skill  and  success;  that 
he  has  evinced  the  temper,  stoutness,  and  the  range  of  quali 
ties  which,  among  his  contemporaries  and  countrymen,  en 
title  him  to  fellowship  and  trust.  For,  the  secrets  of  life 
are  not  shown  except  to  sympathy  and  likeness.  Men  do 
not  confide  themselves  to  boys,  or  coxcombs,  or  pedants, 
but  to  their  peers.  Some  wise  limitation,  as  the  modern 
phrase  is;  some  condition  between  the  extremes,  and  having 
itself  a  positive  quality;  some  stark  and  sufficient  man,  who 
is  not  salt  or  sugar,  but  sufficiently  related  to  the  world  to 
do  justice  to  Paris  or  London,  and,  at  the  same  time,  a 
vigorous  and  original  thinker,  whom  cities  can  not  overawe, 
but  who  uses  them, — is  the  fit  person  to  occupy  this  ground 
of  speculation. 

These  qualities  meet  in  the  character  of  Montaigne.  And 
yet,  since  the  personal  regard  which  I  entertain  for  Mon 
taigne  may  be  unduly  great,  I  will,  under  the  shield  of  this 
prince  of  egotists,  offer,  as  an  apology  for  electing  him  as  the 
representative  of  skepticism,  a  word  or  two  to  explain  how 
my  love  began  and  grew  for  this  admirable  gossip. 

A  single  odd  volume  of  Cotton's  translation  of  the  Essays 
remained  to  me  from  my  father's  library,  when  a  boy.  It 
lay  long  neglected,  until,  after  many  years,  when  I  was 
newly  escaped  from  college,  I  read  the  book,  and  procured 
the  remaining  volumes.  I  remember  the  delight  and  wonder 
in  which  I  lived  with  it.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  had  myself 
written  the  book,  in  some  former  life,  so  sincerely  it  spoke 
to  my  thought  and  experience.  It  happened,  when  in  Paris, 
in  1833,  that,  in  the  cemetery  of  Pere  la  Chaise,  I  came  to 
a  tomb  of  Augustus  Collignon,  who  died  in  1830,  aged  sixty- 
eight  years,  and  who,  said  the  monument,  "lived  to  do  right, 
and  had  formed  himself  to  virtue  on  the  Essavs  of  Mon- 


368          MONTAIGNE:    OR,   THE   SKEPTIC 

taigne."  Some  years  later,  I  became  acquainted  with  an 
accomplished  English  poet,  John  Sterling;  and,  in  prosecut 
ing  my  correspondence,  I  found  that,  from  a  love  of  Mon 
taigne,  he  had  made  a  pilgrimage  to  his  chateau,  still  stand 
ing  near  Castellan,  in  Perigord,  and,  after  two  hundred  and 
fifty  years,  had  copied  from  the  walls  of  his  library  the  in 
scriptions  which  Montaigne  had  written  there.  That  Jour 
nal  of  Mr.  Sterling's,  published  in  the  Westminster  Review, 
Mr.  Hazlitt  has  reprinted  in  the  Prolegomena  to  his  edition 
of  the  Essays.  I  heard  with  pleasure  that  one  of  the  newly- 
discovered  autographs  of  William  Shakspeare  was  in  a  copy 
of  Florio's  translation  of  Montaigne.  It  is  the  only  book 
which  we  certainly  know  to  have  been  in  the  poet's  library. 
And,  oddly  enough,  the  duplicate  copy  of  Florio,  which  the 
British  Museum  purchased,  with  a  view  of  protecting  the 
Shakspeare  autograph  (as  I  was  informed  in  the  Museum), 
turned  out  to  have  the  autograph  of  Ben  Jonson  in  the  fly 
leaf.  Leigh  Hunt  relates  of  Lord  Byron,  that  Montaigne 
was  the  only  great  writer  of  past  times  whom  he  read  with 
avowed  satisfaction.  Other  coincidences,  not  needful  to  be 
mentioned  here,  concurred  to  make  this  old  Gascon  still 
new  and  immortal  for  me. 

In  1571,  on  the  death  of  his  father,  Montaigne,  then  thirty- 
eight  years  old,  retired  from  the  practice  of  law,  at  Bordeaux, 
and  settled  himself  on  his  estate.  Though  he  had  been  a 
man  of  pleasure,  and  sometimes  a  courtier,  his  studious 
habits  now  grew  on  him,  and  he  loved  the  compass,  staid- 
ness,  and  independence,  of  the  country  gentleman's  life.  He 
took  up  his  economy  in  good  earnest,  and  made  his  farms 
yield  the  most.  Downright  and  plain-dealing,  and  abhorring 
to  be  deceived  or  to  deceive,  he  was  esteemed  in  the  country 
for  his  sense  and  probity.  In  the  civil  wars  of  the  League, 
which  converted  every  house  into  a  fort,  Montaigne  kept 
his  gates  open,  and  his  house  without  defence.  All  parties 
freely  came  and  went,  his  courage  and  honor  being  univer 
sally  esteemed.  The  neighboring  lords  and  gentry  brought 
jewels  and  papers  to  him  for  safe-keeping.  Gibbon  reckons, 
in  these  bigoted  times,  but  two  men  of  liberality  in  France, — 
Henry  IV.  and  Montaigne. 


MONTAIGNE:    OR,   THE   SKEPTIC          369 

Montaigne  is  the  frankest  and  honestest  of  all  writers. 
His  French  freedom  runs  into  grossness;  but  he  has  antici 
pated  all  censures  by  the  bounty  of  his  own  confessions.  In  his 
times,  books  were  written  to  one  sex  only,  and  almost  all 
were  written  in  Latin;  so  that,  in  a  humorist,  a  certain 
nakedness  of  statement  was  permitted,  which  our  manners, 
of  a  literature  addressed  equally  to  both  sexes,  do  not  allow. 
But,  though  a  biblical  plainness,  coupled  with  a  most  un- 
canonical  levity,  may  shut  his  pages  to  many  sensitive 
readers,  yet  the  offence  is  superficial.  He  parades  it:  he 
makes  the  most  of  it;  nobody  can  think  or  say  worse  of 
him  than  he  does.  He  pretends  to  most  of  the  vices;  and, 
if  there  be  any  virtue  in  him,  he  says,  it  got  in  by  stealth. 
There  is  no  man,  in  his  opinion,  who  has  not  deserved 
hanging  five  or  six  times;  and  he  pretends  no  exception  in 
his  own  behalf.  "Five  or  six  as  ridiculous  stories,"  too, 
he  says,  "can  be  told  of  me,  as  of  any  man  living."  But, 
with  all  this  really  superfluous  frankness,  the  opinion  of  an 
invincible  probity  grows  into  every  reader's  mind. 

"When  I  the  most  strictly  and  religiously  confess  myself, 
I  find  that  the  best  virtue  I  have  has  in  it  some  tincture  of 
vice;  and  I  am  afraid  that  Plato,  in  his  purest  virtue  (I, 
who  am  as  sincere  and  perfect  a  lover  of  virtue  of  that  stamp 
as  any  other  whatever),  if  he  had  listened,  and  laid  his  ear 
close  to  himself,  would  have  heard  some  jarring  sound  of 
human  mixture;  but  faint  and  remote,  and  only  to  be  per 
ceived  by  himself." 

Here  is  an  impatience  and  fastidiousness  at  color  or  pre 
tence  of  any  kind.  He  has  been  in  courts  so  long  as  to  have 
conceived  a  furious  disgust  at  appearances;  he  will  indulge 
himself  with  a  little  cursing  and  swearing;  he  will  talk  with 
sailors  and  gypsies,  use  flash  and  street  ballads:  he  has 
stayed  in-doors  till  he  is  deadly  sick:  he  will  to  the  open  air, 
though  it  rain  bullets.  He  has  seen  too  much  of  gentle 
men  of  the  long  robe,  until  he  wishes  for  cannibals;  and  is 
so  nervous,  by  factitious  life,  that  he  thinks,  the  more  bar 
barous  man  is,  the  better  he  is.  He  likes  his  saddle.  You 
may  read  theology,  and  grammar,  and  metaphysics  else 
where.  Whatever  you  get  here,  shall  smack  of  the  earth  and 


370         MONTAIGNE:    OR,   THE   SKEPTIC 

of  real  life,  sweet,  or  smart,  or  stinging.  He  makes  no 
hesitation  to  entertain  you  with  the  records  of  his  disease; 
and  his  journey  to  Italy  is  quite  full  of  that  matter.  He 
took  and  kept  this  position  of  equilibrium.  Over  his  name, 
he  drew  an  emblematic  pair  of  scales,  and  wrote  Que  scais 
jef  under  it.  As  I  look  at  his  effigy  opposite  the  title-page, 
I  seem  to  hear  him  say,  "You  may  play  old  Poz,  if  you  will; 
you  may  rail  and  exaggerate, — I  stand  here  for  truth,  and 
will  not,  for  all  the  states,  and  churches,  and  revenues,  and 
personal  reputations  of  Europe,  overstate  the  dry  fact,  as 
I  see  it;  I  will  rather  mumble  and  prose  about  what  I  cer 
tainly  know, — my  house  and  barns;  my  father,  my  wife, 
and  my  tenants;  my  old  lean  bald  pate;  my  knives  and 
forks;  what  meats  I  eat,  and  what  drinks  I  prefer;  and  a 
hundred  straws  just  as  ridiculous, — than  I  will  write,  with  a 
fine  crow-quill,  a  fine  romance.  I  like  gray  days,  and 
autumn  and  winter  weather.  I  am  gray  and  autumnal  my 
self,  and  think  an  undress,  and  old  shoes  that  do  not  pinch 
my  feet,  and  old  friends  who  do  not  constrain  me,  and  plain 
topics  where  I  do  not  need  to  strain  myself  and  pump  my 
brains,  the  most  suitable.  Our  condition  as  men  is  risky 
and  ticklish  enough.  One  can  not  be  sure  of  himself  and 
his  fortune  an  hour,  but  he  may  be  whisked  off  into  some 
pitiable  or  ridiculous  plight.  Why  should  I  vapor  and  play 
the  philosopher,  instead  of  ballasting,  the  best  I  can,  this 
dancing  balloon?  So,  at  least,  I  live  within  compass,  keep 
myself  ready  for  action,  and  can  shoot  the  gulf,  at  last, 
with  decency.  If  there  be  anything  farcical  in  such  a  life, 
the  blame  is  not  mine:  let  it  lie  at  fate's  and  nature's  door." 

The  Essays,  therefore,  are  an  entertaining  soliloquy  on 
every  random  topic  that  comes  into  his  head;  treating 
every  thing  without  ceremony,  yet  with  masculine  sense. 
There  have  been  men  with  deeper  insight;  but,  one  would 
say,  never  a  man  with  such  abundance  of  thoughts:  he  is 
never  dull,  never  insincere,  and  has  the  genius  to  make  the 
reader  care  for  all  that  he  cares  for. 

The  sincerity  and  marrow  of  the  man  reaches  to  his  sen 
tences.  I  know  not  any  where  the  book  that  seems  less 
written.  It  is  the  language  of  conversation  transferred  to 


MONTAIGNE:    OR,  THE   SKEPTIC         371 

a  book.  Cut  these  words,  and  they  would  bleed:  they  are 
vascular  and  alive.  One  has  the  same  pleasure  in  it  that 
we  have  in  listening  to  the  necessary  speech  of  men  about 
their  work,  when  any  unusual  circumstance  gives  momentary 
importance  to  the  dialogue.  For  blacksmiths  and  teamsters 
do  not  trip  in  their  speech;  it  is  a  shower  of  bullets.  It  is 
Cambridge  men  who  correct  themselves,  and  begin  again 
at  every  half  sentence,  and,  moreover,  will  pun,  and  refine 
too  much,  and  swerve  from  the  matter  to  the  ex 
pression.  Montaigne  talks  with  shrewdness,  knows  the 
world,  and  books,  and  himself,  and  uses  the  positive  degree: 
never  shrieks,  or  protests,  or  prays:  no  weakness,  no  con 
vulsion,  no  superlative;  does  not  wish  to  jump  out  of  his 
skin,  or  play  any  antics,  or  annihilate  space  or  time;  but  is 
stout  and  solid;  tastes  every  moment  of  the  day;  likes 
pain,  because  it  makes  him  feel  himself,  and  realize  things; 
as  we  pinch  ourselves  to  know  that  we  are  awake.  He  keeps 
the  plain;  he  rarely  mounts  or  sinks;  likes  to  feel  solid 
ground,  and  the  stones  underneath.  His  writing  has  no 
enthusiasms,  no  aspiration;  contented,  self-respecting,  and 
keeping  the  middle  of  the  road.  There  is  but  one  exception, 
— in  his  love  for  Socrates.  In  speaking  of  him,  for  once  his 
cheek  flushes,  and  his  style  rises  to  passion. 

Montaigne  died  of  a  quinsy,  at  the  age  of  sixty,  in  1592. 
When  he  came  to  die,  he  caused  a  mass  to  be  celebrated  in 
his  chamber.  At  the  age  of  thirty-three,  he  had  been  mar 
ried.  "But,"  he  says,  "might  I  have  had  my  own  will,  I 
would  not  have  married  Wisdom  herself,  if  she  would  have 
had  me:  but  'tis  to  much  purpose  to  evade  it,  the  common 
custom  and  use  of  life  will  have  it  so.  Most  of  my  actions 
are  guided  by  example,  not  choice."  In  the  hour  of  death 
he  gave  the  same  weight  to  custom.  Que  seals  je?  What 
do  I  know. 

This  book  of  Montaigne  the  world  has  endorsed,  by  trans 
lating  it  into  all  tongues,  and  printing  seventy-five  editions 
of  it  in  Europe:  and  that,  too,  a  circulation  somewhat 
chosen,  namely,  among  courtiers,  soldiers,  princes,  men  of 
the  world,  and  men  of  wit  and  generosity. 

Shall  we  say  that  Montaigne  has  spoken  wisely,  and  given 


372          MONTAIGNE:    OR,   THE   SKEPTIC 

the  right  and  permanent  expression  of  the  human  mind,  on 
the  conduct  of  life? 

We  are  natural  believers.  Truth,  or  the  connection  be 
tween  cause  and  effect,  alone  interests  us.  We  are  persuaded 
that  a  thread  runs  through  all  things:  all  worlds  are  strung 
on  it,  as  beads:  and  men,  and  events,  and  life,  come  to  us, 
only  because  of  that  thread:  they  pass  and  repass,  only 
that  we  may  know  the  direction  and  continuity  of  that  line. 
A  book  or  statement  which  goes  to  show  that  there  is  no  line, 
but  random  and  chaos,  a  calamity  out  of  nothing,  a  pros 
perity  and  no  account  of  it,  a  hero  born  from  a  fool,  a  fool 
from  a  hero, — dispirits  us.  Seen  or  unseen,  we  believe  the 
tie  exists.  Talent  makes  counterfeit  ties;  genius  finds  the  real 
ones.  We  hearken  to  the  man  of  science,  because  we  antic 
ipate  the  sequence  in  natural  phenomena  which  he  un 
covers.  We  love  whatever  affirms,  connects,  preserves;  and 
dislike  what  scatters  or  pulls  down.  One  man  appears 
whose  nature  is  to  all  men's  eyes  conserving  and  construc 
tive:  his  presence  supposes  a  well-ordered  society,  agri 
culture,  trade,  large  institutions,  and  empire.  If  these  did 
not  exist,  they  would  begin  to  exist  through  his  endeavors. 
Therefore,  he  cheers  and  comforts  men,  who  feel  all  this  in 
him  very  readily.  The  nonconformist  and  the  rebel  say  all 
manner  of  unanswerable  things  against  the  existing  repub 
lic,  but  discover  to  our  sense  no  plan  of  house  or  state  of  their 
own.  Therefore,  though  the  town  and  state,  and  way  of  living, 
which  our  counsellor  contemplated,  might  be  a  very  modest 
or  musty  prosperity,  yet  men  rightly  go  for  him,  and  reject 
the  reformer,  so  long  as  he  comes  only  with  axe  and  crowbar. 

But  though  we  are  natural  conservers  and  causationists, 
and  reject  a  sour,  dumpish  unbelief,  the  skeptical  class, 
which  Montaigne  represents,  have  reason,  and  every  man, 
at  some  time,  belongs  to  it.  Every  superior  mind  will  pass 
through  this  domain  of  equilibration, — I  should  rather  say, 
will  know  how  to  avail  himself  of  the  checks  and  balances 
in  nature,  as  a  natural  weapon  against  the  exaggeration  and 
formalism  of  bigots  and  blockheads. 

Skepticism  is  the  attitude  assumed  by  the  student  in  re- 


MONTAIGNE:    OR,   THE   SKEPTIC         373 

lation  to  the  particulars  which  society  adores,  but  which 
he  sees  to  be  reverend  only  in  their  tendency  and  spirit. 
The  ground  occupied  by  the  skeptic  is  the  vestibule  of  the 
temple.  Society  does  not  like  to  have  any  breath  of  ques 
tion  blown  on  the  existing  order.  But  the  interrogation  of 
custom  at  all  points  is  an  inevitable  stage  in  the  growth  of 
every  superior  mind,  and  is  the  evidence  of  its  perception  of 
the  flowing  power  which  remains  itself  in  all  changes. 

The  superior  mind  will  find  itself  equally  at  odds  with 
the  evils  of  society,  and  with  the  projects  that  are  offered 
to  relieve  them.  The  wise  skeptic  is  a  bad  citizen;  no  con 
servative;  he  sees  the  selfishness  of  property,  and  the  drow 
siness  of  institutions.  But  neither  is  he  fit  to  work  with  any 
democratic  party  that  ever  was  constituted;  for  parties 
wish  every  one  committed,  and  he  penetrates  the  popular 
patriotism.  His  politics  are  those  of  the  "Soul's  Errand" 
of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh;  or  of  Krishna,  in  the  Bhagavat. 
"There  is  none  who  is  worthy  of  my  love  or  hatred;"  while 
he  sentences  law,  physic,  divinity,  commerce,  and  custom. 
He  is  a  reformer:  yet  he  is  no  better  member  of  the  philan 
thropic  association.  It  turns  out  that  he  is  not  the  cham 
pion  of  the  operative,  the  pauper,  the  prisoner,  the  slave. 
It  stands  in  his  mind,  that  our  life  in  this  world  is  not  of 
quite  so  easy  interpretation  as  churches  and  school-books 
say.  He  does  not  wish  to  take  ground  against  these  benev 
olences,  to  play  the  part  of  devil's  attorney,  and  blazon 
every  doubt  and  sneer  that  darkens  the  sun  for  him.  But 
he  says,  There  are  doubts. 

I  mean  to  use  the  occasion,  and  celebrate  the  calendar-day 
of  our  Saint  Michel  de  Montaigne,  by  counting  and  de 
scribing  these  doubts  or  negations.  I  wish  to  ferret  them 
out  of  their  holes,  and  sun  them  a  little.  We  must  do  with 
them  as  the  police  do  with  old  rogues,  who  are  shown  up 
to  the  public  at  the  marshall's  office.  They  will  never  be 
so  formidable,  when  once  they  have  been  identified  and 
registered.  But  I  mean  honestly  by  them, — that  justice  shall 
be  done  to  their  terrors.  I  shall  not  take  Sunday  objections, 
made  up  on  purpose  to  be  put  down.  I  shall  take  the  worst 
I  can  find,  whether  I  can  dispose  of  them  or  thev  of  me. 


374          MONTAIGNE:    OR,   THE   SKEPTIC 

I  do  not  press  the  skepticism  of  the  materialist.  I 
know,  the  quadruped  opinion  will  not  prevail.  'Tis  of  no 
importance  what  bats  and  oxen  think.  The  first  dangerous 
symptom  I  report,  is,  the  levity  of  intellect;  as  if  it  were 
fatal  to  earnestness  to  know  much.  Knowledge  is  the  know 
ing  that  we  can  not  know.  The  dull  pray;  the  geniuses  are 
light  mockers.  How  respectable  is  earnestness  on  every 
platform!  but  intellect  kills  it.  Nay,  San  Carlo,  my  subtle 
and  admirable  friend,  one  of  the  most  penetrating  of  men, 
finds  that  all  direct  ascension,  even  of  lofty  piety,  leads  to 
this  ghastly  insight,  and  sends  back  the  votary  orphaned. 
My  astonishing  San  Carlo  thought  the  lawgivers  and  saints 
infected.  They  found  the  ark  empty;  saw,  and  would  not 
tell;  and  tried  to  choke  off  their  approaching  followers,  by 
saying,  "Action,  action,  my  dear  fellows,  is  for  you!"  Bad 
as  was  to  me  this  detection  by  San  Carlo,  this  frost  in  July, 
this  blow  from  a  brick,  there  was  still  a  worse,  namely,  the 
cloy  or  satiety  of  the  saints.  In  the  mount  of  vision,  ere 
they  have  yet  risen  from  their  knees,  they  say,  "We  dis 
cover  that  this  our  homage  and  beatitude  is  partial  and 
deformed;  we  must  fly  for  relief  to  the  suspected  and  re 
viled  Intellect,  to  the  Understanding,  the  Mephistopheles, 
to  the  gymnastics  of  talent." 

This  is  hobgoblin  the  first;  and,  though  it  has  been  the 
subject  of  riuch  elegy,  in  our  nineteenth  century,  from 
Byron,  Goethe,  and  other  poets  of  less  fame,  not  to  mention 
many  distinguished  private  observers, — I  confess  it  is  not 
very  affecting  to  my  imagination;  for  it  seems  to  concern 
the  shattering  of  baby-houses  and  crockery-shops.  What 
flutters  the  church  of  Rome,  or  of  England,  or  of  Geneva, 
or  of  Boston,  may  yet  be  very  far  from  touching  any  prin 
ciple  of  faith.  I  think  that  the  intellect  and  moral  senti 
ment  are  unanimous;  and  that,  though  philosophy  extir 
pates  bugbears,  yet  it  supplies  the  natural  checks  of  vice, 
and  polarity  to  the  soul.  I  think  that  the  wiser  a  man  is, 
the  more  stupendous  he  finds  the  natural  and  moral  economy, 
and  lifts  himself  to  a  more  absolute  reliance. 

There  is  the  power  of  moods,  each  setting  at  nought  all 
but  its  own  tissue  of  facts  and  beliefs.  There  is  the  power 


MONTAIGNE:    OR,  THE  SKEPTIC        375 

of  complexions,  obviously  modifying  the  dispositions  and 
sentiments.  The  beliefs  and  unbeliefs  appear  to  be  struc 
tural;  and,  as  soon  as  each  man  attains  the  poise  and 
vivacity  which  allow  the  whole  machinery  to  play,  he  will 
not  need  extreme  examples,  but  will  rapidly  alternate  all 
opinions  in  his  own  life.  Our  life  is  March  weather,  savage 
and  serene  in  one  hour.  We  go  forth  austere,  dedicated, 
believing  in  the  iron  links  of  Destiny,  and  will  not  turn  on 
our  heel  to  save  our  life :  but  a  book,  or  a  bust,  or  only  the 
sound  of  a  name,  shoots  a  spark  through  the  nerves,  and 
we  suddenly  believe  in  will :  my  finger-ring  shall  be  the  seal 
of  Solomon:  fate  is  for  imbeciles:  all  is  possible  to  the  re 
solved  mind.  Presently,  a  new  experience  gives  a  new  turn 
to  our  thoughts:  common  sense  resumes  its  tyranny:  we 
say,  "Well,  the  army,  after  all,  is  the  gate  to  fame,  manners, 
and  poetry:  and,  look  you, — on  the  whole,  selfishness  plants 
best,  prunes  best,  makes  the  best  commerce,  and  the  best 
citizen."  Are  the  opinions  of  a  man  on  right  and  wrong, 
on  fate  and  causation,  at  the  mercy  of  a  broken  sleep  or 
an  indigestion?  Is  his  belief  in  God  and  Duty  no  deeper 
than  a  stomach  evidence?  And  what  guaranty  for  the 
permanence  of  his  opinions  ?  I  like  not  the  French  celerity, 
— a  new  church  and  state  once  a  week. — This  is  the  second 
negation;  and  I  shall  let  it  pass  for  what  it  will.  As  far  as 
it  asserts  rotation  of  states  of  mind,  I  suppose  it  suggests 
its  own  remedy,  namely,  in  the  record  of  larger  periods. 
What  is  the  mean  of  many  states;  of  all  the  states?  Does 
the  general  voice  of  ages  affirm  any  principle,  or  is  no  com 
munity  of  sentiment  discoverable  in  distant  times  and  places, 
And  when  it  shows  the  power  of  self-interest,  I  accept  that 
as  a  part  of  the  divine  law,  and  must  reconcile  it  with 
aspiration  the  best  I  can. 

The  word  Fate,  or  Destiny,  expresses  the  sense  of  man 
kind,  in  all  ages, — that  the  laws  of  the  world  do  not  always 
befriend,  but  often  hurt  and  crush  us.  Fate,  in  the  shape 
of  Kinde  or  nature,  grows  over  us  like  grass.  We  paint 
Time  with  a  scythe;  Love  and  Fortune,  blind;  and  Destiny, 
deaf.  We  have  too  little  power  of  resistance  against  this 
ferocity  which  champs  us  up.  What  front  can  we  make  against 


376          MONTAIGNE:    OR,  THE   SKEPTIC 

these  unavoidable,  victorious,  maleficent  forces?  What  can 
I  do  against  the  influence  of  Race,  in  my  history?  What 
can  I  do  against  hereditary  and  constitutional  habits,  against 
scrofula,  lymph,  impotence?  against  climate,  against  bar 
barism,  in  my  country?  I  can  reason  down  or  deny  every 
thing,  except  this  perpetual  Belly :  feed  he  must  and  will,  and 
I  cannot  make  him  respectable. 

But  the  main  resistance  which  the  affirmative  impulse 
finds,  and  one  including  all  others,  is  in  the  doctrine  of  the 
Illusionists.  There  is  a  painful  rumor  in  circulation,  that 
we  have  been  practised  upon  in  all  the  principal  perform 
ances  of  life,  and  free  agency  is  the  emptiest  name.  We 
have  been  sopped  and  drugged  with  the  air,  with  food,  with 
woman,  with  children,  with  sciences,  with  events,  which 
leave  us  exactly  where  they  found  us.  The  mathematics, 
'tis  complained,  leave  the  mind  where  they  find  it:  so  do  all 
sciences;  and  so  do  all  events  and  actions.  I  find  a  man 
who  has  passed  through  all  the  sciences,  the  churl  he  was ;  and, 
through  all  the  offices,  learned,  civil,  and  social,  can  detect 
the  child.  We  are  not  the  less  necessitated  to  dedicate  life 
to  them.  In  fact,  we  may  come  to  accept  it  as  the  fixed 
rule  and  theory  of  our  state  of  education,  that  God  is  a 
substance,  and  his  method  is  illusion.  The  eastern  sages 
owned  the  goddess  Yoganidra,  the  great  illusory  energy 
of  Vishnu,  by  whom,  as  utter  ignorance,  the  whole  world  is 
beguiled. 

Or,  shall  I  state  it  thus? — The  astonishment  of  life,  is,  the 
absence  of  any  appearance  of  reconciliation  between  the 
theory  and  practice  of  life.  Reason,  the  prized  reality,  the 
Law,  is  apprehended,  now  and  then,  for  a  serene  and  pro 
found  moment,  amidst  the  hubbub  of  cares  and  works  which 
have  no  direct  bearing  on  it; — is  then  lost,  for  months  or 
years,  and  again  found,  for  an  interval,  to  be  lost  again. 
If  we  compute  it  in  time,  we  may,  in  fifty  years,  have  half 
a  dozen  reasonable  hours.  But  what  are  these  cares  and 
works  the  better?  A  method  in  the  world  we  do  not  see, 
but  this  parallelism  of  great  and  little,  which  never  react  on 
each  other,  nor  discover  the  smallest  tendency  to  converge. 


MONTAIGNE:    OR,   THE  SKEPTIC          377 

Experiences,  fortunes,  governings,  readings,  writings  are  noth 
ing  to  the  purpose;  as  when  a  man  comes  into  the  room,  it 
does  not  appear  whether  he  has  been  fed  on  yams  or  buffalo, 
— he  has  contrived  to  get  so  much  bone  and  fibre  as  he 
wants,  out  of  rice  or  out  of  snow.  So  vast  is  the  dispro 
portion  between  the  sky  of  law  and  the  pismire  of  per 
formance  under  it,  that,  whether  he  is  a  man  of  worth  or  a 
sot,  is  not  so  great  a  matter  as  we  say.  Shall  I  add,  as  one 
juggle  of  this  enchantment,  the  stunning  non-intercourse 
law  which  makes  cooperation  impossible?  The  young  spirit 
pants  to  enter  society.  But  all  the  ways  of  culture  and 
greatness  lead  to  solitary  imprisonment.  He  has  been  often 
baulked.  He  did  not  expect  a  sympathy  with  his  thought 
from  the  village,  but  he  went  with  it  to  the  chosen  and  in 
telligent,  and  found  no  entertainment  for  it,  but  mere 
misapprehension,  distaste,  and  scoffing.  Men  are  strangely 
mistimed  and  misapplied;  and  the  excellence  of  each  is  an 
inflamed  individualism  which  separates  him  more. 

There  are  these,  and  more  than  these  diseases  of  thought, 
which  our  ordinary  teachers  do  not  attempt  to  remove. 
Now  shall  we,  because  a  good  nature  inclines  us  to  virtue's 
side,  say,  There  are  no  doubts, — and  lie  for  the  right?  Is 
life  to  be  led  in  a  brave  or  in  a  cowardly  manner?  and 
is  not  the  satisfaction  of  the  doubts  essential  to  all  man 
liness?  Is  the  name  of  virtue  to  be  a  barrier  to  that  which 
is  virtue?  Can  you  not  believe  that  a  man  of  earnest  and 
burly  habit  may  find  small  good,  in  tea,  essays,  and  cate 
chism,  and  want  a  rougher  instruction,  want  men,  labor, 
trade,  farming,  war,  hunger,  plenty,  love,  hatred,  doubt, 
and  terror,  to  make  things  plain  to  him;  and  has  he  not  a 
right  to  insist  on  being  convinced  in  his  own  way?  When 
he  is  convinced,  he  will  be  worth  the  pains. 

Belief  consists  in  accepting  the  affirmations  of  the  soul; 
unbelief,  in  denying  them.  Some  minds  are  incapable  of 
skepticism.  The  doubts  they  profess  to  entertain  are 
rather  a  civility  or  accommodation  to  the  common  discourse 
of  their  company.  They  may  well  give  themselves  leave 
to  speculate,  for  they  are  secure  of  a  return.  Once  admitted 
to  the  heaven  of  thought,  they  see  no  relapse  into  night,  but 


378         MONTAIGNE:   OR,  THE  SKEPTIC 

infinite  invitation  on  the  other  side.  Heaven  is  within 
heaven,  and  sky  over  sky,  and  they  are  encompassed  with 
divinities.  Others  there  are,  to  whom  the  heaven  is  brass, 
and  it  shuts  down  to  the  surface  of  the  earth.  It  is  a 
question  of  temperament,  or  of  more  or  less  immersion  in 
nature.  The  last  class  must  needs  have  a  reflex  or  parasite 
faith;  not  a  sight  of  realities,  but  an  instinctive  reliance  on 
the  seers  and  believers  of  realities.  The  manners  and 
thoughts  of  believers  astonish  them,  and  convince  them  that 
these  have  seen  something  which  is  hid  from  them 
selves.  But  their  sensual  habit  would  fix  the  believer  to 
his  last  position,  whilst  he  as  inevitably  advances;  and 
presently  the  unbeliever,  for  love  of  belief,  burns  the 
believer. 

Great  believers  are  always  reckoned  infidels,  impracticable, 
fantastic,  atheistic,  and  really  men  of  no  account.  The 
spiritualist  finds  himself  driven  to  express  his  faith  by 
a  series  of  skepticisms.  Charitable  souls  come  with  their 
projects,  and  ask  his  cooperation.  How  can  he  hesitate? 
It  is  the  rule  of  mere  comity  and  courtesy  to  agree  where 
you  can,  and  to  turn  your  sentence  with  something  aus 
picious,  and  not  freezing  and  sinister.  But  he  is  forced  to 
say,  "0,  these  things  will  be  as  they  must  be :  what  can  you 
do?  These  particular  griefs  and  crimes  are  the  foliage  and 
fruit  of  such  trees  as  we  see  growing.  It  is  vain  to  complain 
of  the  leaf  or  the  berry:  cut  it  off;  it  will  bear  another  just 
as  bad.  You  must  begin  your  cure  lower  down."  The 
generosities  of  the  day  prove  an  intractable  element  for 
him.  The  people's  questions  are  not  his;  their  methods  are 
not  his;  and,  against  all  the  dictates  of  good  nature,  he 
is  driven  to  say,  he  has  no  pleasure  in  them. 

Even  the  doctrines  dear  to  the  hope  of  man,  of  the  divine 
Providence,  and  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  his  neighbors 
cannot  put  the  statement  so  that  he  shall  affirm  it.  But 
he  denies  out  of  more  faith,  and  not  less.  He  denies  out  of 
honesty.  He  had  rather  stand  charged  with  the  imbecility 
of  skepticism,  than  with  untruth.  I  believe,  he  says,  in 
the  moral  design  of  the  universe;  it  exists  hospitably  for 
the  weal  of  souls;  but  your  dogmas  seem  to  me  caricatures: 


MONTAIGNE:    OR,   THE   SKEPTIC         379 

why  should  I  make  believe  them?  Will  any  say,  this  is 
cold  and  infidel?  The  wise  and  magnanimous  will  not  say 
so.  They  will  exult  in  his  far-sighted  good- will,  that  can 
abandon  to  the  adversary  all  the  ground  of  tradition  and 
common  belief,  without  losing  a  jot  of  strength.  It  sees 
to  the  end  of  all  transgression.  George  Fox  saw  "that  there 
was  an  ocean  of  darkness  and  death;  but  withal,  an  in 
finite  ocean  of  light  and  love  which  flowed  over  that  of 
darkness." 

The  final  solution  in  which  skepticism  is  lost  is  in  the 
moral  sentiment,  which  never  forfeits  its  supremacy.  All 
moods  may  be  safely  tried,  and  their  weight  allowed  to  all 
objections:  the  moral  sentiment  as  easily  outweighs  them 
all,  as  any  one.  This  is  the  drop  which  balances  the  sea. 
I  play  with  the  miscellany  of  facts,  and  take  those  super 
ficial  views  which  we  call  skepticism;  but  I  know  that  they 
will  presently  appear  to  me  in  that  order  which  makes 
skepticism  impossible.  A  man  of  thought  must  feel  the 
thought  that  is  parent  of  the  universe:  that  the  masses  of 
nature  do  undulate  and  flow. 

This  faith  avails  to  the  whole  emergency  of  life  and  ob 
jects.  The  world  is  saturated  with  deity  and  with  law.  He 
is  content  with  just  and  unjust,  with  sots  and  fools,  with 
the  triumph  of  folly  and  fraud.  He  can  behold  with 
serenity  the  yawning  gulf  between  the  ambition  of  man  and 
his  power  of  performance,  between  the  demand  and  supply 
of  power,  which  makes  the  tragedy  of  all  souls. 

Charles  Fourier  announced  that  "the  attractions  of  man 
are  proportioned  to  his  destinies" ;  in  other  words,  that  every 
desire  predicts  its  own  satisfaction.  Yet,  all  experience 
exhibits  the  reverse  of  this;  the  incompetency  of  power  is 
the  universal  grief  of  young  and  ardent  minds.  They  accuse 
the  divine  providence  of  a  certain  parsimony.  It  has  shown 
the  heaven  and  earth  to  every  child,  and  filled  him  with  a 
desire  for  the  whole;  a  desire  raging,  infinite;  a  hunger,  as 
of  space  to  be  filled  with  planets;  a  cry  of  famine,  as  of 
devils  for  souls.  Then  for  the  satisfaction, — to  each  man  is 
administered  a  single  drop,  a  bead  of  dew  of  vital  power 
per  day, — a  cup  as  large  as  space,  and  one  drop  of  the  water 


380         MONTAIGNE:    OR,   THE   SKEPTIC 

of  life  in  it.  Each  man  woke  in  the  morning,  with  an  appetite 
that  could  eat  the  solar  system  like  a  cake;  a  spirit  for 
action  and  passion  without  bounds;  he  could  lay  his  hand 
on  the  morning  star:  he  could  try  conclusions  with  gravi 
tation  or  chemistry;  but,  on  the  first  motion  to  prove  his 
strength — hands,  feet,  senses,  gave  way,  and  would  not 
serve  him.  He  was  an  emperor  deserted  by  his  states,  and 
left  to  whistle  by  himself,  or  thrust  into  a  mob  of  emperors, 
all  whistling:  and  still  the  sirens  sang,  "The  attractions  are 
proportioned  to  the  destinies."  In  every  house,  in  the 
heart  of  each  maiden,  and  of  each  boy,  in  the  soul  of  the 
soaring  saint,  this  chasm  is  found, — between  the  largest  prom 
ise  of  ideal  power,  and  the  shabby  experience. 

The  expansive  nature  of  truth  comes  to  our  succor,  elastic, 
not  to  be  surrounded.  Man  helps  himself  by  larger  gener 
alizations.  The  lesson  of  life  is  practically  to  generalize; 
to  believe  what  the  years  and  the  centuries  say  against  the 
hours;  to  resist  the  usurpation  of  particulars;  to  penetrate 
to  their  catholic  sense.  Things  seem  to  say  one  thing,  and 
say  the  reverse.  The  appearance  is  immoral;  the  result 
•is  moral.  Things  seem  to  tend  downward,  to  justify  de 
spondency,  to  promote  rogues,  to  defeat  the  just;  and,  by 
knaves,  as  by  martyrs,  the  just  cause  is  carried  forward. 
Although  knaves  win  in  every  political  struggle,  although 
society  seems  to  be  delivered  over  from  the  hands  of  one  set 
of  criminals  into  the  hands  of  another  set  of  criminals,  as 
fast  as  the  government  is  changed,  and  the  march  of  civili 
zation  is  a  train  of  felonies,  yet,  general  ends  are  somehow 
answered.  We  see,  now,  events  forced  on,  which  seem  to 
retard  or  retrograde  the  civility  of  ages.  But  the  world- 
spirit  is  a  good  swimmer,  and  storms  and  waves  cannot 
drown  him.  He  snaps  his  finger  at  laws :  and  so,  throughout 
history,  heaven  seems  to  affect  low  and  poor  means. 
Through  the  years  and  the  centuries,  through  evil  agents, 
through  toys  and  atoms,  a  great  and  beneficent  tendency 
irresistibly  streams. 

Let  a  man  learn  to  look  for  the  permanent  in  the 
mutable  and  fleeting;  let  him  learn  to  bear  the  disappearance 
of  things  he  was  wont  to  reverence,  without  losing  his 


MONTAIGNE:    OR,   THE   SKEPTIC          381 

reverence;  let  him  learn  that  he  is  here,  not  to  work,  but  to 
be  worked  upon;  and  that,  though  abyss  open  under  abyss, 
and  opinion  displace  opinion,  all  are  at  last  contained  in  the 
Eternal  cause. — 

"If  my  bark  sink    'tis  to  another  sea." 


XX 
NAPOLEON;  OR,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD 

AMONG  the  eminent  persons  of  the  nineteenth  century > 
Bonaparte  is  far  the  best  known,  and  the  most  powerful; 
and  owes  his  predominance  to  the  fidelity  with  which  he 
expresses  the  tone  of  thought  and  belief,  the  aims  of  the 
masses  of  active  and  cultivated  men.  It  is  Swedenborg's 
theory,  that  every  organ  is  made  up  of  homogeneous  par 
ticles:  or,  as  it  is  sometimes  expressed,  every  whole  is  made 
of  similars;  that  is,  the  lungs  are  composed  of  infinitely 
small  lungs;  the  liver,  of  infinitely  small  livers;  the  kidney, 
of  little  kidneys,  &c.  Following  this  analogy,  if  any  man 
is  found  to  carry  with  him  the  power  and  affections  of  vast 
numbers,  if  Napoleon  is  France,  if  Napoleon  is  Europe,  it 
is  because  the  people  whom  he  sways  are  little  Napoleons. 

In  our  society,  there  is  a  standing  antagonism  between 
the  conservative  and  the  democratic  classes;  between  those 
who  have  made  their  fortunes,  and  the  young  and  the  poor 
who  have  fortunes  to  make;  between  the  interests  of  dead 
labor, — that  is,  the  labor  of  hands  long  ago  still  in  the  grave, 
which  labor  is  now  entombed  in  money  stocks,  or  in  land 
and  buildings  owned  by  idle  capitalists, — and  the  interests 
of  living  labor,  which  seeks  to  possess  itself  of  land,  and  build 
ings,  and  money  stocks.  The  first  class  is  timid,  selfish, 
illiberal,  hating  innovation,  and  continually  losing  numbers 
by  death.  The  second  class  is  selfish  also,  encroaching,  bold, 
self-relying,  always  outnumbering  the  other,  and  recruiting 
its  numbers  very  hour  by  births.  It  desires  to  keep  open 
every  avenue  to  the  competition  of  all,  and  to  multiply 
avenues; — the  class  of  business  men  in  America,  in  England, 
in  France,  and  throughout  Europe;  the  class  of  industry 
and  skill.  Napoleon  is  its  representative.  The  instinct  of 

382 


NAPOLEON;  OR  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD  383 

active,  brave,  able  men,  throughout  the  middle  class  every 
where,  has  pointed  out  Napoleon  as  the  incarnate  Demo 
crat.  He  had  their  virtues,  and  their  vices;  above  all,  he 
had  their  spirit  or  aim.  That  tendency  is  material,  pointing 
at  a  sensual  success,  and  employing  the  richest  and  most 
various  means  to  that  end;  conversant  with  mechanical 
powers,  highly  intellectual,  widely  and  accurately  learned 
and  skilful,  but  subordinating  all  intellectual  and  spiritual 
forces  into  means  to  a  material  success.  To  be  the  rich  man, 
is  the  end.  "God  has  granted,"  says  the  Koran,  "to  every 
people  a  prophet  in  its  own  tongue."  Paris,  and  London 
and  New  York,  the  spirit  of  commerce,  of  money,  and  mate 
rial  power,  were  also  to  have  their  prophet;  and  Bonaparte 
was  qualified  and  sent. 

Every  one  of  the  million  readers  of  anecdotes,  or  memoirs, 
or  lives  of  Napoleon,  delights  in  the  page,  because  he  studies 
in  it  his  own  history.  Napoleon  is  thoroughly  modern,  and, 
at  the  highest  point  of  his  fortunes,  has  the  very  spirit  of  the 
newspapers.  He  is  no  saint, — to  use  his  own  word,  "no 
capuchin,"  and  he  is  no  hero,  in  the  high  sense.  The  man 
in  the  street  finds  in  him  the  qualities  and  powers  of  other 
men  in  the  street .  He  finds  him,  like  himself,  by  birth  a 
citizen,  who,  by  very  intelligible  merits,  arrived  at  such  a 
commanding  position,  that  he  could  indulge  all  those  tastes 
which  the  common  man  possesses,  but  is  obliged  to  conceal 
and  deny:  good  society,  good  books,  fast  travelling,  dress, 
dinners,  servants  without  number,  personal  weight,  the  exe 
cution  of  his  ideas,  the  standing  in  the  attitude  of  a  bene 
factor  to  all  persons  about  him,  the  refined  enjoyments  of 
pictures,  statues,  music,  palaces,  and  conventional  honors, — 
precisely  what  is  agreeable  to  the  heart  of  every  man  in  the 
nineteenth  century, — this  powerful  man  possessed. 

It  is  true  that  a  man  of  Napoleon's  truth  of  adaptation 
to  the  mind  of  the  masses  around  him,  becomes  not  merely, 
representative,  but  actually  a  monopolizer  and  usurper  of. 
other  minds.  Thus  Mirabeau  plagiarized  every  good 
thought,  every  good  word,  that  was  spoken  in  France.  Dumont 
relates,  that  he  sat  in  the  gallery  of  the  Convention,  and. 
heard  Mirabeau  make  a  speech.  It  struck  Dumont  that  he 


384      NAPOLEON;  OR  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD 

could  fit  it  with  a  peroration,  which  he  wrote  in  pencil  im 
mediately,  and  showed  to  Lord  Elgin,  who  sat  by  him. 
Lord  Elgin  approved  it,  and  Dumont,  in  the  evening,  showed 
it  to  Mirabeau.    Mirabeau  read  it,  pronounced  it  admirable, 
and  declared  he  would  incorporate  it  into  his  harangue,  to 
morrow,  to  the  Assembly.    "It  is  impossible/'  said  Dumont, 
"as,  unfortunately,  I  have  shown  it  to  Lord  Elgin."     "If  you 
have  shown  it  to  Lord  Elgin,  and  to  fifty  persons  beside,  I 
shall  still  speak  it  to-morrow:"  and  he  did  speak  it,  with 
much  effect,  at  the  next  day's  session.    For  Mirabeau,  with 
his  overpowering  personality,  felt  that  these  things,  which 
his  presence  inspired,  were  as  much  his  own,  as  if  he  had  said 
them,  and  that  his  adoption  of  them  gave  them  their  weight. 
Much  more  absolute  and  centralizing  was  the  successor  to 
Mirabeau's  popularity,  and  to  much  more  than  his  pre 
dominance  in  France.    Indeed,  a  man  of  Napoleon's  stamp 
almost  ceases  to  have  a  private  speech  and  opinion.    He  is 
so  largely  receptive,  and  is  so  placed,  that  he  comes  to  be 
a  bureau  for  all  the  intelligence,  wit,  and  power,  of  the  age 
and  country.     He  gains  the  battle:  he  makes  the  code:  he 
makes  the  system  of  weights  and  measures;   he  levels  the 
Alps;    he    builds    the    road.    All    distinguished    engineers, 
savans,  statists,  report  to  him :  so  likewise,  do  all  good  heads 
in  every  kind :  he  adopts  the  best  measures,  sets  his  stamp  on 
them,  and  not  these  alone,  but  on  every  happy  and  memorable 
expression.    Every  sentence  spoken  by  Napoleon,  and  every 
ILie  of  his  writing,  deserves  .reading,  as  it  is  the  sense  of  France. 
Bonaparte  was  the  idol  of  common  men,  because  he  had 
in  transcendent  degree  the  qualities  and  powers  of  common 
men.    There  is  a  certain  satisfaction  in  coming  down  to  the 
lowest  ground  of  politics,  for  we  get  rid  of  cant  and  hypoc 
risy.    Bonaparte  wrought,  in  common  with  that  great  class 
he   represented,   for   power   and   wealth, — but   Bonaparte, 
specially,  without  any  scruple  as  to  the  means.    All  the 
sentiments  which  embarrass  men's  pursuits  of  these  objects, 
he  set  aside.    The  sentiments  were  for  women  and  children. 
Fontanes,  in  1804,  expressed  Napoleon's  own  sense,  when,  in 
behalf  of  the  Senate,  he  addressed  him,— "Sire,  the  desire  of 
perfection  is  the  worst  disease  that  ever  afflicted  the  human 


NAPOLEON;  OK  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD  385 

mind."  The  advocates  of  liberty,  and  of  progress,  are 
"ideologists;" — a  word  of  contempt  often  in  his  mouth;  — 
"Necker  is  an  ideologist:"  "Lafayette  is  an  ideologist." 

An  Italian  proverb,  too  well  known,  declares  that,  "if  you 
would  succeed,  you  must  not  be  too  good."  It  is  an  advan 
tage,  within  certain  limits,  to  have  renounced  the  dominion 
of  the  sentiments  of  piety,  gratitude,  and  generosity;  since, 
what  was  an  impassable  bar  to  us,  and  still  is  to  others, 
becomes  a  convenient  weapon  for  our  purposes;  just  as  the 
river  which  was  a  formidable  barrier,  winter  transforms  into 
the  smoothest  of  roads. 

Napoleon  renounced,  once  for  all,  sentiments  and  affec 
tions,  and  would  help  himself  with  his  hands  and  his  head. 
With  him  is  no  miracle,  and  no  magic.  He  is  a  worker  in 
brass,  in  iron,  in  wood,  in  earth,  in  roads,  in  buildings,  in 
money,  and  in  troops,  and  a  very  consistent  and  wise  master- 
workman.  He  is  never  weak  and  literary,  but  acts  with  the 
solidity  and  tLe  precision  of  natural  agents.  He  has  not 
lost  his  native  sense  and  sympathy  with  things.  Men  give 
way  before  such  a  man,  as  before  natural  events.  To  be 
sure,  there  are  men  enough  who  are  immersed  in  things,  as 
farmers,  smiths,  sailors,  and  mechanics  generally;  and  we 
know  how  real  and  solid  such  men  appear  in  the  presence  of 
scholars  and  grammarians:  but  these  men  ordinarily  lack 
the  power  of  arrangement,  and  are  like  hands  without  a 
head.  But  Bonaparte  superadded  to  this  mineral  and 
animal  force,  insight  and  generalization,  so  that  men  saw  in 
him  combined  the  natural  and  the  intellectual  power,  as  if 
the  sea  and  land  had  taken  flesh  and  begun  to  cipher. 
Therefore  the  land  and  sea  seem  to  presuppose  him.  He 
came  into  hit,  own,  and  they  received  him.  This  ciphering 
operative  knows  what  he  is  working  with,  and  what  is  the 
product.  He  knew  the  properties  of  gold  and  iron,  of  wheels 
and  ships,  of  troops  and  diplomatists,  and  required  that 
each  should  do  after  its  kind. 

The  art  of  war  was  the  game  in  which  he  exerted  his 
arithmetic.  It  consisted,  according  to  him,  in  having  always 
more  forces  than  the  enemy,  on  the  point  where  the  enemy 
is  attacked,  or  where  he  attacks:  and -his  whole  talent  is 


386      NAPOLEON;  OR  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD 

strained  by  endless  manoeuvre  and  evolution,  to  march 
always  on  the  enemy  at  an  angle,  and  destroy  his  forces  in 
detail.  It  is  obvious  that  a  very  small  force,  skilfully  and 
rapidly  manoeuvring,  so  as  always  to  bring  two  men  against 
one  at  the  point  of  engagement,  will  be  an  overmatch  for 
a  much  larger  body  of  men. 

The  times,  his  constitution,  and  his  early  circumstances, 
combined  to  develop  this  pattern  democrat.  He  had  the 
virtues  of  his  class,  and  the  conditions  for  their  activity. 
That  common  sense,  which  no  sooner  respects  any  end, 
than  it  finds  the  means  to  effect  it;  the  delight  in  the  use 
of  means;  in  the  choice,  simplification,  and  combining  of 
means;  the  directness  and  thoroughness  of  his  work;  the 
prudence  with  which  all  was  seen,  and  the  energy  with 
which  all  was  done,  make  him  the  natural  organ  and  head  of 
what  I  may  almost  call,  from  its  extent,  the  modern  party. 

Nature  must  have  far  the  greatest  share  in  every  success, 
and  so  in  his.  Such  a  man  was  wanted,  and  such  a  man  was 
born;  a  man  of  stone  and  iron,  capable  of  sitting  on  horse 
back  sixteen  or  seventeen  hours,  of  going  many  days  to 
gether  without  rest  or  food,  except  by  snatches,  and  with 
the  speed  and  spring  of  a  tiger  in  action;  a  man  not  em 
barrassed  by  any  scruples;  compact, instant, selfish, prudent, 
and  of  a  perception  which  did  not  suffer  itself  to  be  balked  or 
misled  by  any  pretences  of  others,  or  any  superstition,  or 
any  heat  or  haste  of  his  own.  "My  hand  of  iron,"  he  said, 
"was  not  at  the  extremity  of  my  arm:  it  was  immediately 
connected  with  my  head."  He  respected  the  power  of 
nature  and  fortune,  and  ascribed  to  it  his  superiority, 
instead  of  valuing  himself,  like  inferior  men,  on  his  opinion- 
ativeness  and  waging  war  with  nature.  His  favorite 
rhetoric  lay  in  allusion  to  his  star:  and  he  pleased  himself, 
as  well  LS  the  people,  when  he  styled  himself  the  "Child  of 
Destiny."  "They  charge  me,"  he  said,  "with  the  com 
mission  of  great  crimes:  men  of  my  stamp  do  not  commit 
crimes.  Nothing  has  been  more  simple  than  my  elevation: 
'tis  in  vain  to  ascribe  it  to  intrigue  or  crime:  it  was  owing 
to  the  peculiarity  of  the  times,  and  to  my  reputation  of 
having  fought  well  against  the  enemies  of  my  country.  I 


NAPOLEON;  OR  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD  387 

have  always  marched  with  the  opinion  of  great  masses,  and 
with  events.  Of  what  use,  then,  would  crimes  be  to  me?" 
Again  he  said,  speaking  of  his  son,  "My  son  can  not  replace 
me;  I  could  not  replace  myself.  I  am  the  creature  of  cir 
cumstances." 

He  had  a  directness  of  action  never  before  combined 
with  so  much  comprehension.  He  is  a  realist,  terrific  to 
all  talkers,  and  confused  truth-obscuring  persons.  He  sees 
where  the  matter  hinges,  throws  himself  on  the  precise 
point  of  resistance,  and  slights  all  othgr  considerations.  He 
is  strong  in  the  right  manner,  namely,  by  insight.  He  never 
blundered  into  victory,  but  won  his  battles  in  his  head, 
before  he  won  them  on  the  field.  His  principal  means  are 
in  himself.  He  asks  counsel  of  no  other.  In  1796,  he  writes 
to  the  Directory:  "I  have  conducted  the  campaign  without 
consulting  any  one.  I  should  have  done  no  good,  if  I  had 
been  under  the  necessity  of  conforming  to  the  notions  of 
another  person.  I  have  gained  some  advantages  over  su 
perior  forces,  and  when  totally  destitute  of  every  thing, 
because,  in  the  persuasion  that  your  confidence  was  re 
posed  in  me,  my  actions  were  as  prompt  as  my  thoughts." 

History  is  full,  down  to  this  day,  of  the  imbecility  of 
kings  and  governors.  They  are  a  class  of  persons  much  to 
be  pitied,  for  they  know  not  what  they  should  do.  The 
weavers  strike  for  bread;  and  the  king  and  his  ministers, 
not  knowing  what  to  do,  meet  them  with  bayonets.  But 
Napoleon  understood  his  business.  Here  was  a  man  who, 
in  each  moment  and  emergency,  knew  what  to  do  next.  It 
is  an  immense  comfort  and  refreshment  to  the  spirits,  not 
only  of  kings,  but  of  citizens.  Few  men  have  any  next; 
they  live  from  hand  to  mouth,  without  plan,  and  are  ever 
at  the  end  of  their  line,  and,  after  each  action,  wait  for  an 
impulse  from  abroad.  Napoleon  had  been  the  first  man  of 
the  world,  if  his  ends  had  been  purely  public.  As  he  is,  he 
inspires  confidence  and  vigor  by  the  extraordinary  unity 
of  his  action.  He  is  firm,  sure,  self-denying,  self-postponing, 
sacrificing  every  thing  to  his  aim, — money,  troops,  generals, 
and  his  own  safety  also,  to  his  aim;  not  misled,  like  common 
adventurers,  by  the  splendor  of  his  own  means.  "Incidents 


388      NAPOLEON;  OR  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD 

ought  not  to  govern  policy,"  he  said,  "but  policy,  incidents.' 
"To  be  hurried  away  by  every  event,  is  to  have  no  political 
system  at  all."  His  victories  were  only  so  many  doors,  and 
he  never  for  a  moment  lost  sight  of  his  way  onward,  in  the 
dazzle  and  uproar  of  the  present  circumstance.  He  knew 
what  to  do,  and  he  flew  to  his  mark.  He  would  shorten 
a  straight  line  to  come  at  his  object.  Horrible  anecdotes 
may,  no  doubt,  be  collected  from  his  history,  of  the  price 
at  which  he  bought  his  successes;  but  he  must  not  therefore 
be  set  down  as  cruel;  .but  only  as  one  who  knew  no  impedi 
ment  to  his  will;  not  bloodthirsty,  not  cruel, — but  woe  to 
what  thing  or  person  stood  in  his  way!  Not  bloodthirsty, 
but  not  sparing  of  blood,— and  pitiless.  He  saw  only  the 
object:  the  obstacle  must  give  way.  "Sire,  General  Clarke 
can  not  combine  with  General  Junot,  for  the  dreadful  fire 
of  the  Austrian  battery." — "Let  him  carry  the  battery." — 
"Sire,  every  regiment  that  approaches  the  heavy  artillery 
is  sacrificed:  Sire,  what  orders?" — "Forward,  forward!" 
Seruzier,  a  colonel  of  artillery,  gives,  in  his  Military  Memoirs, 
the  following  sketch  of  a  scene  after  the  battle  of  Austerlitz. — 
"At  the  moment  in  which  the  Russian  army  was  making  its 
retreat,  painfully,  but  in  good  order,  on  the  ice  of  the  lake, 
the  Emperor  Napoleon  came  riding  at  full  speed  toward  the 
artillery.  'You  are  losing  time/  he  cried;  'fire  upon  those 
masses;  they  must  be  engulfed;  fire  upon  the  ice!'  The 
order  remained  unexecuted  for  ten  minutes.  In  vain  sev 
eral  officers  and  myself  were  placed  on  the  slope  of  a  hill  to 
produce  the  effect :  their  balls  and  mine  rolled  upon  the  ice, 
without  breaking  it  up.  Seeing  that,  I  tried  a  simple  method 
of  elevating  light  howitzers.  The  almost  perpendicular 
fall  of  the  heavy  projectiles  produced  the  desired  effect.  My 
method  was  immediately  followed  by  the  ad  joining  batteries, 
and  in  less  than  no  time  we  buried"  some1  "thousands  of 
Russians  and  Austrians  under  the  waters  of  the  lake." 

In  the  plenitude  of  his  resources,  every  obstacle  seemed  to 
vanish.  "There  shall  be  no  Alps,"  he  said;  and  he  built 
his  perfect  roads,  climbing  by  graded  galleries  their  steepest 

1  As  I  quote  at  second  hand,  and  cannot  procure  Seruzier,  I  dare 
not  adopt  the  high  figure  I  find. 


NAPOLEON;  OR  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD     389 

precipices,  until  Italy  was  as  open  to  Paris  as  any  town  in 
France.  He  laid  his  bones  to,  and  wrought  for  his  crown. 
Having  decided  what  was  to  be  done,  he  did  that  with  might 
and  main.  He  put  out  all  his  strength.  He  risked  every 
thing,  and  spared  nothing,  neither  ammunition,  nor  money, 
nor  troops,  nor  generals,  nor  himself. 

We  like  to  see  every  thing  do  its  office  after  its  kind, 
whether  it  be  a  milch-cow  or  a  rattlesnake;  and,  if  fighting 
be  the  best  mode  of  adjusting  national  differences  (as  large 
majorities  of  men  seem  to  agree),  certainly  Bonaparte  was 
right  in  making  it  thorough.  "The  grand  principle  of  war," 
he  said,  "was,  that  an  army  ought  always  to  be  ready,  by 
day  and  by  night,  and  at  all  hours,  to  make  all  the  resistance 
it  is  capable  of  making."  He  never  economized  his  ammuni 
tion,  but,  on  a  hostile  position,  rained  a  torrent  of  iron, — 
shells,  balls,  grape-shot, — to  annihilate  all  defence.  On 
any  point  of  resistance,  he  concentrated  squadron  on  squad 
ron  in  overwhelming  numbers,  until  it  was  swept  out  of 
existence.  To  a  regiment  of  horse-chasseurs  at  Lobenstein, 
two  days  before  the  battle  of  Jena,  Napoleon  said,  "My  lads, 
you  must  not  fear  death;  when  soldiers  brave  death,  they 
drive  him  into  the  enemy's  ranks."  In  the  fury  of  assault, 
he  no  more  spared  himself.  He  went  to  the  edge  of  his  pos 
sibility.  It  is  plain  that  in  Italy  he  did  what  he  could,  and 
all  that  he  could.  He  came,  several  times,  within  an  inch 
of  ruin;  and  his  own  person  was  all  but  lost.  He  was  flung 
into  the  marsh  at  Arcola.  The  Austrians  were  between  him 
and  his  troops  in  the  melee,  and  he  was  brought  off  with 
desperate  efforts.  At  Lonato,  and  at  other  places,  he  was 
on  the  point  of  being  taken  prisoner.  He  fought  sixty 
battles.  He  had  never  enough.  Each  victory  was  a  new 
weapon.  "My  power  would  fall,  were  I  not  to  support  it 
by  new  achievements.  Conquest  has  made  me  what  I  am,  and 
conquest  must  maintain  me."  He  felt,  with  every  wise  man, 
that  as  much  life  is  needed  for  conservation  as  for  creation. 
We  are  always  in  peril,  always  in  a  bad  plight,  just  on  the 
edge  of  destruction,  and  only  to  be  saved  by  invention  and 
courage. 

This  vigor  was  -guarded  and  tempered  by  the  coldest 


390      NAPOLEON;  OR  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD 

prudence  and  punctuality.  A  thunderbolt  in  the  attack, 
he  was  found  invulnerable  in  his  intrenchments.  His  very 
attack  was  never  the  inspiration  of  courage,  but  the  result 
of  calculation.  His  idea  of  the  best  defence  consists  in 
being  still  the  attacking  party.  "My  ambition/'  he  says, 
"was  great,  but  was  of  a  cold  nature."  In  one  of  his  con 
versations  with  Las  Casas,  he  remarked,  "As  to  moral 
courage,  I  have  rarely  met  with  the  two-o'clock-in-the- 
morning  kind:  I  mean  unprepared  courage,  that  which  is 
necessary  on  an  unexpected  occasion;  and  which,  in  spite  of 
the  most  unforeseen  events,  leaves  full  freedom  of  judgment 
and  decision:"  and  he  did  not  hesitate  to  declare  that  he 
was  himself  eminently  endowed  with  this  "two-o'clock-in-the- 
morning  courage,  and  that  he  had  met  with  few  persons 
equal  to  himself  in  this  respect." 

Every  thing  depended  on  the  nicety  of  his  combinations, 
and  the  stars  were  not  more  punctual  than  his  arithmetic. 
His  personal  attention  descended  to  the  smallest  particulars. 
"At  Montebello,  I  ordered  Kellermann  to  attack  with  eight 
hundred  horse,  and  with  these  he  separated  the  six  thousand 
Hungarian  grenadiers,  before  the  very  eyes  of  the  Austrian 
cavalry.  This  cavalry  was  half  a  league  off,  and  required  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  to  arrive  on  the  field  of  action;  and  I 
have  observed,  that  it  is  always  these  quarters  of  an  hour 
that  decide  the  fate  of  a  battle."  "Before  he  fought  a 
battle,  Bonaparte  thought  little  about  what  he  should  do  in 
case  of  success,  but  a  great  deal  about  what  he  should  do  in 
case  of  a  reverse  of  fortune."  The  same  prudence  and  good 
sense  mark  all  his  behavior.  His  instructions  to  his  sec 
retary  at  the  Tuilleries  are  worth  remembering.  "During 
the  night,  enter  my  chamber  as  seldom  as  possible.  Do  not 
awake  me  when  you  have  any  good  news  to  communicate; 
with  that  there  is  no  hurry.  But  when  you  bring  bad  news, 
rouse  me  instantly,  for  then  there  is  not  a  moment  to  be 
lost."  It  was  a  whimsical  economy  of  the  same  kind  which 
dictated  his  practice,  when  general  in  Italy,  in  regard  to 
his  burdensome  correspondence.  He  directed  Bourienne 
to  leave  all  letters  unopened  for  three  weeks,  and  then 
observed  with  satisfaction  how  large  a  -part  of  the  corre- 


NAPOLEON;  OR  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD  391 

spondence  had  thus  disposed  of  itself,  and  no  longer  re 
quired  an  answer.  His  achievement  of  business  was  im 
mense,  and  enlarges  the  known  powers  of  man.  There  have 
been  many  working  kings,  from  Ulysses  to  William  of 
Orange,  but  none  who  accomplished  a  tithe  of  this  man's 
performance. 

To  these  gifts  of  nature,  Napoleon  added  the  advantage  of 
having  been  born  to  a  private  and  humble  fortune.  In  his 
latter  days,  he  had  the  weakness  of  wishing  to  add  to  his 
crowns  and  badges  the  prescription  of  aristocracy:  but  he 
knew  his  debt  to  his  austere  education,  and  made  no  secret 
of  his  contempt  for  the  born  kings,  and  for  "the  hereditary 
asses,"  as  he  coarsely  styled  the  Bourbons.  He  said  that, 
"in  their  exile,  they  had  learned  nothing,  and  forgot  noth 
ing."  Bonaparte  had  passed  through  all  the  degrees  of 
military  service,  but  also  was  citizen  before  he  was  emperor, 
and  so  has  the  key  to  citizenship.  His  remarks  and  esti 
mates  discover  the  information  and  justness  of  measurement 
of  the  middle  class.  Those  who  had  to  deal  with  him, 
found  that  he  was  not  to  be  imposed  upon,  but  could  cipher 
as  well  as  another  man.  This  appears  in  all  parts  of  his 
Memoirs,  dictated  at  St.  Helena.  When  the  expenses  of  the 
empress,  of  his  household,  of  his  palaces,  had  accumulated 
great  debts,  Napoleon  examined  the  bills  of  the  creditors 
himself,  detected  overcharges  and  errors,  and  reduced  the 
claims  by  considerable  sums. 

His  grand  weapon,  namely,  the  millions  whom  he  directed, 
he  owed  to  the  representative  character  which  clothed  him. 
He  interests  us  as  he  stands  for  France  and  for  Europe ;  and 
he  exists  as  captain  and  king,  only  as  far  as  the  Revolution, 
or  the  interest  of  the  industrious  masses,  found  an  organ 
and  a  leader  in  him.  In  the  social  interests,  he  knew  the 
meaning  and  value  of  labor,  and  threw  himself  naturally  on 
that  side.  I  like  an  incident  mentioned  by  one  of  his 
biographers  at  St.  Helena.  "When  walking  with  Mrs.  Bal- 
combe,  some  servants,  carrying  heavy  boxes,  passed  by  on 
the  road,  and  Mrs.  Balcombe  desired  them,  in  rather  an 
angry  tone,  to  keep  back.  Napoleon  interfered,  saying, 
'Respect  the  burden.  Madam.'  "  In  the  time  of  the  empire, 


392       NAPOLEON;  OR  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD 

he  directed  attention  to  the  improvement  and  embellishment 
of  the  markets  of  the  capital.  "The  market-place/'  he  said, 
"is  the  Louvre  of  the  common  people."  The  principal  works 
that  have  survived  him  are  his  magnificent  roads.  He 
filled  the  troops  with  his  spirit,  and  a  sort  of  freedom  and 
companionship  grew  up  between  him  and  them,  which  the 
forms  of  his  court  never  permitted  between  the  officers  and 
himself.  They  performed,  under  his  eye,  that  which  no 
others  could  do.  The  best  document  of  his  relation  to  his 
troops  is  the  order  of  the  day  on  the  morning  of  the  battle  of 
Austerlitz,  in  which  Napoleon  promises  the  troops  that  he 
will  keep  his  person  out  of  reach  of  fire.  This  declaration, 
which  is  the  reverse  of  that  ordinarily  made  by  generals 
and  sovereigns  on  the  eve  of  a  battle,  sufficiently  explains 
the  devotion  of  the  army  to  their  leader. 

But  though  there  is  in  particulars  this  identity  between 
Napoleon  and  the  mass  of  the  people,  his  real  strength  lay 
in  their  conviction  that  he  was  their  representative  in  his 
genius  and  aims,  not  only  when  he  courted,  but  when  he 
controlled  and  even  when  he  decimated  them  by  his  con 
scriptions.  He  knew,  as  well  as  any  Jacobin  in  France,  how 
to  philosophize  on  liberty  and  equality;  and,  when  allusion 
was  made  to  the  precious  blood  of  centuries,  which  was 
spilled  by  the  killing  of  the  Due  d'Enghien,  he  suggested 
"Neither  is  .ny  blood  ditch-water."  The  people  felt  that  no 
longer  the  throne  was  occupied,  and  the  land  sucked  of  its 
nourishment,  by  a  small  class  of  legitimates,  secluded  from 
all  community  with  the  children  of  the  soil,  and  holding  the 
ideas  and  superstitions  of  a  long-forgotten  state  of  society. 
Instead  of  that  vampire,  a  man  of  themselves  held,  in  the 
Tuilleries,  knowledge  and  ideas  like  their  own,  opening,  of 
course,  to  them  and  their  children,  all  places  of  power  and 
trust.  The  day  of  sleepy,  selfish  policy,  ever  narrowing  the 
means  and  opportunities  of  young  men,  was  ended,  and  a 
day  of  expansion  and  demand  was  come.  A  market  for  all 
the  powers  and  productions  of  man  was  opened;  brilliant 
prizes  glittered  in  the  eyes  of  youth  and  talent.  The  old, 
iron-bound,  feudal  France  was  changed  into  a  young  Ohio 
or  New  York;  and  those  who  smarted  under  the  immediate 


NAPOLEON;  OR  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD     393 

rigors  of  the  new  monarch,  pardoned  them,  as  the  necessary 
severities  of  the  military  system  which  had  driven  out  the 
oppressor.  And  even  when  the  majority  of  the  people  had 
begun  to  ask,  whether  they  had  really  gained  any  thing 
under  the  exhausting  levies  of  men  and  money  of  the  new 
master, — the  whole  talent  of  the  country,  in  every  rank  and 
kindred,  took  his  part,  and  defended  him  as  its  natural 
patron.  In  1814,  when  advised  to  rely  on  the  higher  classes, 
Napoleon  said  to  those  around  him,  "Gentlemen,  in  the 
situation  in  which  I  stand,  my  only  nobility  is  the  rabble  of 
the  Faubourgs." 

Napoleon  met  this  natural  expectation.  The  necessity  of 
his  position  required  a  hospitality  to  every  sort  of  talent, 
and  its  appointment  to  trusts;  and  his  feeling  went  along 
with  this  policy.  Like  every  superior  person,  he  undoubt 
edly  felt  a  desire  for  men  and  compeers,  and  a  wish  to 
measure  his  power  with  other  masters,  and  an  impatience 
of  fools  and  underlings.  In  Italy,  he  sought  for  men,  and 
found  none.  "Good  God!"  he  said,  "how  rare  men  are! 
There  are  eighteen  millions  in  Italy,  and  I  have  with  dif 
ficulty  found  two, — Dandola  and  Melzi."  In  later  years, 
with  larger  experience,  his  respect  for  mankind  was  not  in 
creased.  In  a  moment  of  bitterness,  he  said,  to  one  of  his 
oldest  friends,  "Men  deserve  the  contempt  with  which  they 
inspire  me.  I  have  only  to  put  some  gold  lace  on  the  coat 
of  my  virtuous  republicans,  and  they  immediately  become 
just  what  I  wish  them."  This  impatience  at  levity  was, 
however,  an  oblique  tribute  of  respect  to  those  able  persons 
who  commanded  his  regard,  not  only  when  he  found  them 
friends  and  coadjutors,  but  also  when  they  resisted  his  will. 
He  could  not  confound  Fox  and  Pitt,  Carnot,  Lafayette, 
and  Bernadotte  with  the  danglers  of  his  court;  and,  in 
spite  of  the  detraction  which  his  systematic  egotism  dictated 
toward  the  great  captains  who  conquered  with  and  for  him, 
ample  acknowledgments  are  made  by  him  to  Lannes,  Duroc, 
Kleber,  Dessaix,  Massena,  Murat,  Ney,  and  Augereau.  If 
he  felt  himself  their  patron,  and  the  founder  of  their  for 
tunes,  as  when  he  said,  "I  made  my  generals  out  of  mud," 
he  could  not  hide  his  satisfaction  in  receiving  from  them  a 


394       NAPOLEON;  OR  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD 

seconding  and  support  commensurate  with  the  grandeur  of 
his  enterprise.  In  the  Russian  campaign,  he  was  so  much 
impressed  by  the  courage  and  resources  of  Marshal  Ney, 
that  he  said,  "I  have  two  hundred  millions  in  my  coffers,  and 
I  would  give  them  all  for  Ney."  The  characters  which  he  has 
drawn  of  several  of  his  marshals  are  discriminating,  and, 
though  they  did  not  content  the  insatiable  vanity  of  French 
officers,  are,  no  doubt,  substantially  just.  And,  in  fact, 
every  species  of  merit  was  sought  and  advanced  under  his 
government.  "I  know,"  he  said,  "the  depth  and  draught  of 
water  of  every  one  of  my  generals."  Natural  power  was  sure  to 
be  well  received  at  his  court.  Seventeen  men,  in  his  time, 
were  raised  from  common  soldiers  to  the  rank  of  king, 
marshal,  duke,  or  general;  and  the  crosses  of  his  Legion  of 
Honor  were  given  to  personal  valor,  and  not  to  family 
connection.  "When  soldiers  have  been  baptized  in  the  fire  of 
a  battle-field,  they  have  all  one  rank  in  my  eyes." 

When  a  natural  king  becomes  a  titular  king,  everybody  is 
pleased  and  satisfied.  The  Revolution  entitled  the  strong 
populace  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine,  and  every  horse-boy 
and  powder-monkey  in  the  army,  to  look  on  Napoleon,  as 
flesh  of  his  flesh,  and  the  creature  of  his  party:  but  there 
is  something  in  the  success  of  grand  talent  which  enlists  an 
universal  sympathy.  For,  in  the  prevalence  of  sense  and 
spirit  over  stupidity  and  malversation,  all  reasonable  men 
have  an  interest;  and,  as  intellectual  beings,  we  feel  the  air 
purified  by  the  electric  shock,  when  material  force  is  over 
thrown  by  intellectual  energies.  As  soon  as  we  are  removed 
out  of  the  reach  of  local  and  accidental  partialities,  man  feels 
that  Napoleon  fights  for  him;  these  are  honest  victories; 
this  strong  steam-engine  does  our  work.  Whatever  appeals 
to  the  imagination,  by  transcending  the  ordinary  limits  of 
human  ability,  wonderfully  encourages  and  liberates  us. 
This  capacious  head,  revolving  and  disposing  sovereignly 
trains  of  affairs,  and  animating  such  multitudes  of  agents; 
this  eye,  which  looked  through  Europe;  this  prompt  in 
vention;  this  inexhaustible  resource; — what  events!  what 
romantic  pictures!  what  strange  situations! — when  spying 
the  Alps,  by  a  sunset  in  the  Sicilian  sea;  drawing  up  his 


NAPOLEON;  OR  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD     395 

army  for  battle,  in  sight  of  the  Pyramids,  and  saying  to  his 
troops,  "From  the  tops  of  those  pyramids,  forty  centuries 
look  down  on  you;"  fording  the  Red  Sea;  wading  in  the 
gulf  of  the  Isthmus  of  Suez.  On  the  shore  of  Ptolemais, 
gigantic  projects  agitated  him.  "Had  Acre  fallen,  I  should 
have  changed  the  face  of  the  world."  His  army,  on  the 
night  of  the  battle  of  Austerlitz,  which  was  the  anniversary 
of  his  inauguration  as  Emperor,  presented  him  with  a  bou 
quet  of  forty  standards  taken  in  the  fight.  Perhaps  it  is  a 
little  puerile,  the  pleasure  he  took  in  making  these  contrasts 
glaring;  as  when  he  pleased  himself  with  making  kings  wait 
in  his  antechambers,  at  Tilsit,  at  Paris,  and  at  Erfurt. 

We  cannot,  in  the  universal  imbecility,  indecision,  and 
indolence  of  men,  sufficiently  congratulate  ourselves  on  this 
strong  and  ready  actor,  who  took  occasion  by  the  beard, 
and  showed  us  how  much  may  be  accomplished  by  the  mere 
force  of  such  virtues  as  all  men  possess  in  less  degrees; 
namely,  by  punctuality,  by  personal  attention,  by  courage, 
and  thoroughness.  "The  Austrians,"  he  said,  "do  not  know 
the  value  of  time."  I  should  cite  him,  in  his  earlier  years,  as 
a  model  of  prudence.  His  power  does  not  consist  in  any 
wild  or  extravagant  force;  in  any  enthusiasm,  like  Ma 
homet's;  or  singular  power  of  persuasion;  but  in  the  exercise 
of  common  sense  on  each  emergency,  instead  of  abiding  by 
rules  and  customs.  The  lesson  he  teaches  is  that  which 
vigor  always  teaches, — that  there  is  always  room  for  it.  To 
what  heaps  of  cowardly  doubts  is  not  that  man's  life  an 
answer.  When  he  appeared,  it  was  the  belief  of  all  military 
men  that  there  could  be  nothing  new  in  war;  as  it  is  the 
belief  of  men  to-day,  that  nothing  new  can  be  undertaken  in 
politics,  or  in  church,  or  in  letters,  or  in  trade,  or  in  farming, 
or  in  our  social  manners  and  customs;  and  as  it  is,  at  all 
times,  the  belief  of  society  that  the  world  is  used  up.  But 
Bonaparte  knew  better  than  society;  and,  moreover,  knew 
that  he  knew  better.  I  think  all  men  know  better  than  they 
do;  know  that  the  institutions  we  so  volubly  commend  are 
go-carts  and  baubles;  but  they  dare  not  trust  their  presenti 
ments.  Bonaparte  relied  on  his  own  .lense,  and  did  not  care 
a  bean  for  other  people's.  The  world  treated  his  novelties 


396       NAPOLEON;  OR  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD 

just  as  it  treats  everybody's  novelties, — made  infinite  ob 
jection;  mustered  all  the  impediments;  but  he  snapped  his 
finger  at  their  objections.  "What  creates  great  difficulty/' 
he  remarks,  "in  the  profession  of  the  land-commander,  is 
the  necessity  of  feeding  so  many  men  and  animals.  If  he 
allows  himself  to  be  guided  by  the  commissaries,  he  will 
never  stir,  and  all  his  expeditions  will  fail."  An  example  of 
his  common  sense  is  what  he  says  of  the  passage  of  the  Alps 
in  winter,  which  all  writers,  one  repeating  after  the  other, 
had  described  as  impracticable.  "The  winter,"  says  Na 
poleon,  "is  not  the  most  unfavorable  season  for  the  passage 
of  lofty  mountains.  The  snow  is  then  firm,  the  weather 
settled,  and  there  is  nothing  to  fear  from  avalanches,  the 
real  and  only  danger  to  be  apprehended  in  the  Alps.  On 
those  high  mountains,  there  are  often  very  fine  days  in 
December,  of  a  dry  cold,  with  extreme  calmness  in  the  air." 
Read  his  account,  too,  of  the  way  in  which  battles  are 
gained.  "In  all  battles,  a  moment  occurs,  when  the  bravest 
troops,  after  having  made  the  greatest  efforts,  feel  inclined 
to  run.  That  terror  proceeds  from  a  want  of  confidence  in 
their  own  courage;  and  it  only  requires  a  slight  opportunity, 
a  pretence,  to  restore  confidence  to  them.  The  art  is  to  give 
rise  to  the  opportunity,  and  to  invent  the  pretence.  At 
Arcola,  I  won  the  battle  with  twenty-five  horsemen.  I 
seized  that  moment  of  lassitude,  gave  every  man  a  trumpet, 
and  gained  the  day  with  this  handful.  You  see  that  two 
armies  are  two  bodies  which  meet,  and  endeavor  to 
frighten  each  other:  a  moment  of  panic  occurs,  and  that 
moment  must  be  turned  to  advantage.  When  a  man  has 
been  present  in  many  actions,  he  distinguishes  that  moment 
without  difficulty;  it  is  as  easy  as  casting  up  an  addition." 
This  deputy  of  the  nineteenth  century  added  to  his  gifts 
a  capacity  for  speculation  on  general  topics.  He  delighted 
in  running  through  the  range  of  practical,  of  literary,  and  of 
abstract  questions.  His  opinion  is  always  original,  and  to 
the  purpose.  On  the  voyage  to  Egypt,  he  liked,  after  din 
ner,  to  fix  on  three  or  four  persons  to  support  a  proposition, 
and  as  many  to  oppose  it.  He  gave  a  subject,  and  the  dis 
cussions  turned  on  questions  of  religion,  the  different  kinds  of 


NAPOLEON;  OR  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD     397 

government,  and  the  art  of  war.  One  day,  he  asked, 
whether  the  planets  were  inhabited?  On  another,  what  was 
the  age  of  the  world?  Then  he  proposed  to  consider  the 
probability  of  the  destruction  of  the  globe,  either  by  water 
or  by  fire;  at  another  time,  the  truth  or  fallacy  of  presenti 
ments,  and  the  interpretation  of  dreams.  He  was  very  fond 
of  talking  of  religion.  In  1806,  he  conversed  with  Fournier, 
bishop  of  Montpellier,  on  matters  of  theology.  There  were 
two  points  on  which  they  could  not  agree,  viz.,  that  of  hell, 
and  that  of  salvation  out  of  the  pale  of  the  church.  The 
Emperor  told  Josephine,  that  he  disputed  like  a  devil  on 
these  two  points,  on  which  the  bishop  was  inexorable.  To 
the  philosophers  he  readily  yielded  all  that  was  proved 
against  religion  as  the  work  of  men  and  time ;  but  he  would 
not  hear  of  materialism.  One  fine  night,  on  deck,  amid  a 
clatter  of  materialism,  Bonaparte  pointed  to  the  stars,  and 
said,  "You  may  talk  as  long  as  you  please,  gentlemen,  but 
who  made  all  that?"  He  delighted  in  the  conversation  of 
men  of  science,  particularly  of  Monge  and  Berthollet;  but 
the  men  of  letters  he  slighted;  "they  were  manufacturers  of 
phrases."  Of  medicine,  too,  he  was  fond  of  talking,  and 
with  those  of  its  practitioners  whom  he  most  esteemed,, — 
with  Corvisart  at  Paris,  and  with  Antonomarchi  at  St. 
Helena.  "Believe  me,"  he  said  to  the  last,  "we  had  better 
leave  off  all  of  these  remedies :  life  is  a  fortress  which  neither 
you  nor  I  know  anything  about.  Why  throw  obstacles  in 
the  way  of  its  defence?  Its  own  means  are  superior  to  all 
the  apparatus  of  your  laboratories.  Corvisart  candidly 
agreed  with  me,  that  all  your  filthy  mixtures  are  good  for 
nothing.  Medicine  is  a  collection  of  uncertain  prescriptions, 
the  results  of  which,  taken  collectively,  are  more  fatal  than 
useful  to  mankind.  Water,  air,  and  cleanliness,  are  the 
chief  articles  in  my  pharmacopeia." 

His  Memoirs,  dictated  to  Count  Montholon  and  General 
Gourgaud,  at  St.  Helena,  have  great  value,  after  all  the  de 
duction  that,  it  seems,  is  to  be  made  from  them  on  account  of 
his  known  disingenuousness.  He  has  the  good-nature  of 
strength  and  conscious  superiority.  I  admire  his  simple, 
clear  narrative  of  his  battles; — good  as  Csesar's;  his 


398       NAPOLEON;  OR  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD 

natured  and  sufficiently  respectful  account  of  Marshal 
Wurmser  and  his  other  antagonists,  and  his  own  equality  as 
a  writer  to  his  varying  subject.  The  most  agreeable  portion 
is  the  Campaign  in  Egypt. 

He  had  hours  of  thought  and  wisdom.  In  intervals  of 
leisure,  either  in  the  camp  or  the  palace,  Napoleon  appears 
as  a  man  of  genius,  directing  on  abstract  questions  the  native 
appetite  for  truth,  and  the  impatience  of  words,  he  was  wont 
to  show  in  war.  He  could  enjoy  every  play  of  invention, 
a  romance,  a  bon  mot,  as  well  as  a  stratagem  in  a  campaign. 
He  delighted  to  fascinate  Josephine  and  her  ladies,  in  a  dim- 
lighted  apartment,  by  the  terrors  of  a  fiction,  to  which  his 
voice  and  dramatic  power  lent  every  addition. 

I  call  Napoleon  the  agent  or  attorney  of  the  middle  class 
of  modern  society;  of  the  throng  who  fill  the  markets,  shops, 
counting-houses,  manufactories,  ships,  of  the  modern  world, 
aiming  to  be  rich.  He  was  the  agitator,  the  destroyer  of 
prescription,  the  internal  improver,  the  liberal,  the  radical, 
the  inventor  of  means,  the  opener  of  doors  and  markets,  the 
subverter  of  monopoly  and  abuse.  Of  course,  the  rich  and 
aristocratic  did  not  like  him.  England,  the  center  of  capital, 
and  Rome  and  Austria,  centers  of  tradition  and  genealogy, 
opposed  him.  The  consternation  of  the  dull  and  conserva 
tive  classes,  the  terror  of  the  foolish  old  men  and  old  women 
of  the  Roman  conclave, — who  in  their  despair  took  hold  of 
any  thing,  and  would  cling  to  red-hot  iron, — the  vain  at 
tempts  of  statists  to  amuse  and  deceive  him,  of  the  emperor 
of  Austria  to  bribe  him;  and  the  instinct  of  the  young, 
ardent,  and  active  men,  every  where,  which  pointed  him 
out  as  the  giant  of  the  middle  class,  make  his  history  bright 
and  commanding.  He  had  the  virtues  of  the  masses  of  his 
constituents:  he  had  also  their  vices.  I  am  sorry  that  the 
brilliant  picture  has  its  reverse.  But  that  is  the  fatal  quality 
which  we  discover  in  our  pursuit  of  wealth,  that  it  is 
treacherous,  and  is  bought  by  the  breaking  or  weakening  of 
the  sentiments:  and  it  is  inevitable  that  we  should  find  the 
same  fact  in  the  history  of  this  champion,  who  proposed  to 
himself  simply  a  brilliant  career,  without  any  stipulation  or 
scruple  concerning  the  means. 


NAPOLEON;  OR  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD     399 

Bonaparte  was  singularly  destitute  of  generous  sentiments. 
The  highest-placed  individual  in  the  most  cultivated  age  and 
population  of  the  world, — he  has  not  the  merit  of  common 
truth  and  honesty.  He  is  unjust  to  his  generals;  egotistic, 
and  monopolizing;  meanly  stealing  the  credit  of  their  great 
actions  from  Kellermann,  f rom  Bernadotte;  intriguing  to  in 
volve  his  faithful  Junot  in  hopeless  bankruptcy,  in  order  to 
drive  him  to  a  distance  from  Paris,  because  the  familiarity  of 
his  manners  offends  the  new  pride  of  his  throne.  He  is  a  bound 
less  liar.  The  official  paper,  his  "Moniteurs,"  and  all  his  bul 
letins,  are  proverbs  for  saying  what  he  wished  to  be  believed; 
and  worse, — he  sat,  in  his  premature  old  age,  in  his  lonely 
island,  coldly  falsifying  facts,  and  dates,  and  characters, 
and  giving  to  history  a  theatrical  eclat.  Like  all  Frenchmen, 
he  has  a  passion  for  stage  effect.  Every  action  that  breathes 
of  generosity  is  poisoned  by  this  calculation.  His  star,  his 
love  of  glory,  his  doctrine  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul  are 
all  French.  "I  must  dazzle  and  astonish.  If  I  were  to  give 
the  liberty  of  the  press,  my  power  could  not  last  three  days." 
To  make  a  great  noise  is  his  favorite  design.  "A  great  rep 
utation  is  a  great  noise:  the  more  there  is  made,  the  far 
ther  off  it  is  heard.  Laws,  institutions,  monuments,  nations, 
all  fall;  but  the  noise  continues,  and  resounds  in  after  ages." 
His  doctrine  of  immortality  is  simply  fame.  His  theory  of 
influence  is  not  flattering.  "There  are  two  levers  for  moving 
men, — interest  and  fear.  Love  is  a  silly  infatuation,  depend 
upon  it.  Friendship  is  but  a  name.  I  love  nobody.  I  do 
not  even  love  my  brothers:  perhaps  Joseph,  a  little,  from 
habit,  and  because  he  is  my  elder;  and  Duroc,  I  love  him 
too;  but  why? — because  his  character  pleases  me:  he  is 
stern  and  resolute,  and,  I  believe,  the  fellow  never  shed  a 
tear.  For  my  part,  I  know  very  well  that  I  have  no  true 
friends.  As  long  as  I  continue  to  be  what  I  am,  I  may  have 
as  many  pretended  friends  as  I  please.  Leave  sensibility  to 
women:  but  men  should  be  firm  in  heart  and  purpose,  or 
they  should  have  nothing  to  do  with  war  and  government." 
He  was  thoroughly  unscrupulous.  He  would  steal,  slander, 
assassinate,  drown,  and  poison,  as  his  interest  dictated.  He 
had  no  generosity;  but  mere  vulgar  hatred:  he  was  intensely 


400      NAPOLEON;  OR  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD 

selfish:  he  was  perfidious:  he  cheated  at  cards:  he  was  a 
prodigious  gossip;  and  opened  letters;  and  delighted  in  his 
infamous  police;  and  rubbed  his  hands  with  joy  when  he 
had  intercepted  some  morsel  of  intelligence  concerning  the 
men  and  women  about  him,  boasting  that  "he  knew  every 
thing;"  and  interfered  with  the  cutting  the  dresses  of  the 
women;  and  listened  after  the  hurrahs  and  the  compliments 
of  the  street,  incognito.  His  manners  were  coarse.  He 
treated  women  with  low  familiarity.  He  had  the  habit 
of  pulling  their  ears  and  pinching  their  cheeks,  when  he  was 
in  good  humor,  and  of  pulling  the  ears  and  whiskers  of  men, 
and  of  striking  and  horse-play  with  them,  to  his  last  days. 
It  does  not  appear  that  he  listened  at  key-holes,  or,  at  least, 
that  he  was  caught  at  it.  In  short,  when  you  have  pene 
trated  through  all  the  circles  of  power  and  splendor,  you 
were  not  dealing  with  a  gentleman,  at  last;  but  with  an 
imposter  and  a  rogue:  and  he  fully  deserves  the  epithet  of 
Jupiter  Scapin,  or  a  sort  of  Scamp  Jupiter. 

In  describing  the  two  parties  into  which  modern  society 
divides  itself, — the  democrat  and  the  conservative, — I  said, 
Bonaparte  represents  the  democrat,  or  the  party  of  men  of 
business,  against  the  stationary  or  conservative  party. 
I  omitted  then  to  say,  what  is  material  to  the  statement, 
namely,  that  these  two  parties  differ  only  as  young  and  old. 
The  democrat  is  a  young  conservative;  the  conservative  is 
an  old  democrat.  The  aristocrat  is  the  democrat  ripe,  and 
gone  to  seed, — because  both  parties  stand  on  the  one  ground 
of  the  supreme  value  of  property,  which  one  endeavors  to 
get,  and  the  other  to  keep.  Bonaparte  may  be  said  to 
represent  the  whole  history  of  this  party,  its  youth  and  its 
age;  yes,  and  with  poetic  justice,  its  fate,  in  his  own.  The 
counter-revolution,  the  counter-party,  still  waits  for  its 
organ  and  representative,  in  a  lover  and  a  man  of  truly 
public  and  universal  aims. 

Here  was  an  experiment,  under  the  most  favorable  con 
ditions,  of  the  powers  of  intellect  without  conscience. 
Never  was  such  a  leader  so  endowed,  and  so  weaponed; 
never  leader  found  such  aids  and  followers.  And  what  was 


NAPOLEON;  OR  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD  401 

the  result  of  this  vast  talent  and  power,  of  these  immense 
armies,  burned  cities,  squandered  treasures,  immolated 
millions  of  men,  of  this  demoralized  Europe?  It  came  to 
no  result.  All  passed  away,  like  the  smoke  of  his  artillery, 
and  left  no  trace.  He  left  France  smaller,  poorer,  feebler, 
than  he  found  it;  and  the  whole  contest  for  freedom  was 
to  be  begun  again.  The  attempt  was,  in  principle,  suicidal. 
France  served  him  with  life,  and  limb,  and  estate,  as  long  as 
it  could  identify  its  interest  with  him;  but  when  men  saw 
that  after  victory  was  another  war;  after  the  destruction  of 
armies,  new  conscriptions;  and  they  who  had  toiled  so 
desperately  were  never  nearer  to  the  reward, — they  could 
not  spend  hat  they  had  earned,  nor  repose  on  their  down- 
beds,  nor  strut  in  their  chateaux, — they  deserted  him.  Men 
found  that  his  absorbing  egotism  was  deadly  to  all  other  men. 
It  resembled  the  torpedo,  which  inflicts  a  succession  of 
shocks  on  any  one  who  takes  hold  of  it,  producing  spasms 
which  contract  the  muscles  of  the  hand,  so  that  the  man 
cannot  open  his  fingers;  and  the  animal  inflicts  new  and 
more  violent  shocks,  until  he  paralyzes  and  kills  his  victim. 
So,  this  exorbitant  egotist  narrowed,  impoverished,  and 
absorbed  the  power  and  existence  of  those  who  served 
him;  and  the  universal  cry  of  France,  and  of  Europe,  in 
1814,  was,  "enough  of  him;"  "assez  de  Bonaparte." 

It  was  not  Bonaparte's  fault.  He  did  all  that  in  him  lay, 
to  live  and  thrive  without  moral  principle.  It  was  the 
nature  of  things,  the  eternal  law  of  man  and  of  the  world, 
which  balked  and  ruined  him;  and  the  result,  in  a  million 
experiments,  will  be  the  same.  Every  experiment,  by 
multitudes  or  by  individuals,  that  has  a  sensual  and  selfish 
aim,  will  fail.  The  pacific  Fourier  will  be  as  inefficient  as  the 
pernicious  Napoleon.  As  long  as  our  civilization  is  essen 
tially  one  of  property,  of  fences,  of  exclusiveness,  it  will  be 
mocked  by  delusions.  Our  riches  will  leave  us  sick;  there 
Trill  be  bitterness  in  our  laughter,  and  our  wine  will  burn  our 
mouth.  Only  that  good  profits,  which  we  can  taste  with 
all  doors  open,  and  which  serves  all  men. 


XXI 

THE  POET 

A  moody  child  and  wildly  wise 

Pursued  the  game  with  joyful  eyes, 

Which  chose,  like  meteors,  their  way, 

And  rived  the  dark  with  private  ray: 

They  overleapt  the  horizon's  edge, 

Searched  with  Apollo's  privilege; 

Through  man,  and  woman,  and  sea,  and  star, 

Saw  the  dance  of  nature  forward  far; 

Through  worlds,  and  races,  and  terms,  and  times, 

Saw  musical  order,  and  pairing  rhymes. 

Olympian  bards  who  sung 

Divine  ideas  below, 
Which  always  find  us  young, 

And  always  keep  us  so. 

THOSE  who  are  esteemed  umpires  of  taste  are  often 
persons  who  have  acquired  some  knowledge  of  admired  pic 
tures  or  sculptures,  and  have  an  inclination  for  whatever 
is  elegant;  but  if  you  inquire  whether  they  are  beautiful 
souls,  and  whether  their  own  acts  are  like  fair  pictures,  you 
learn  that  they  are  selfish  and  sensual.  Their  cultivation 
is  local,  as  if  you  should  rub  a  log  of  dry  wood  in  one 
spot  to  produce  fire,  all  the  rest  remaining  cold.  Their 
knowledge  of  the  fine  arts  is  some  study  of  rules  and  partic 
ulars,  or  some  limited  judgment  of  color  or  form,  which  is 
exercised  for  amusement  or  for  show.  It  is  a  proof  of  the 
shallowness  of  the  doctrine  of  beauty,  as  it  lies  in  the  minds 
oTour  amateurs,  that  men  seem  to  have  lost  the  perception 
of  the  instant  dependence  of  form  upon  soul.  There  is  no 
doctrine  of  forms  in  our  philosophy.  We  were  put  into  our 
bodies,  as  fire  is  put  into  a  pan,  to  be  carried  about;  but 
there  is  no  accurate  adjustment  between  the  spirit  and  the 
organ,  much  less  is  the  latter  the  germination  of  the  former. 

402 


THE   POET  403 

So  in  regard  to  other  forms,  the  intellectual  men  do  not 
believe  in  any  essential  dependence  of  the  material  world  on 
thought  and  volition.  Theologians  think  it  a  pretty  air- 
castle  to  talk  of  the  spiritual  meaning  of  a  ship  or  a  cloud, 
of  a  city  or  a  contract,  but  they  prefer  to  come  again  to 
the  solid  ground  of  historical  evidence;  and  even  the  poets 
are  contented  with  a  civil  and  conformed  manner  of  living, 
and  to  write  poems  from  the  fancy,  at  a  safe  distance  from 
their  own  experience.  But  the  highest  minds  of  the  world 
have  never  ceased  to  explore  the  double  meaning,  or,  shall 
I  say,  the  quadruple,  or  the  centuple^  or  much  more  manifold 
meaning,  of  every  sensuous  fact:  Orpheus,  Empedocles, 
Heraclitus,  Plato,  Plutarch,  Dante,  Swedenborg,  and  the 
masters  of  sculpture,  picture,  and  poetry.  For  we  are  not 
pans  and  barrows,  nor  even  porters  of  the  fire  and  torch- 
bearers,  but  children  of  the  fire,  made  of  it,  and  only  the 
same  divinity  transmuted,  and  at  two  or  three  removes, 
when  we  know  least  about  it.  And  this  hidden  truth,  that 
the  fountains  whence  all  this  river  of  Time,  and  its  creatures, 
flows,  are  iritrinsically  ideal  and  beautiful,  draws  us  to  the 
consideration  of  the  nature  and  functions  of  the  Poet,  or_ 
the  man  of  Beauty,  to  the  means  and  materials  he  uses,  and  < 
to  the  general  aspect  of  his  art  in  the  present  time. 

The  breadth  of  the  problem  is  great,  for  the  poet  is  rep 
resentative.  He  stands  among  partial  men  for  the  complete 
man,  and  apprises  us  not  of  his  wealth,  but  of  the  common 
wealth.  The  young  man  reveres  men  of  genius,  because,  to 
speak  truly,  they  are  more  himself . than  he  is.  They  receive  " 
of  the  soul  as  he  also  receives,  but  they  more.  Nature  en 
hances  her  beauty,  to  the  eye  of  loving  men,  from  their 
belief  that  the  poet  is  beholding  her  shows  at  the  same  time. 
He  is  isolated  among  his  contemporaries,  by  truth  and  by 
his  art,  but  with  this  consolation  in  his  pursuits,  that  they 
will  draw  all  men  sooner  or  later.  For  all  men  live  by 
truth,  and  stand  in  need  of  expression.  In  love,  in  art,  in 
avarice,  in  politics,  in  labor,  in  games,  we  study  to  utter  our 
rMnful  secret.  The  man  is  only  half  himself,  the  other  half 
is  his  expression. 

Notwithstanding  this  necessity  to  be  published,  adequate 


404  THE   POET 

expression  is  rare.  I  know  not  how  it  is  that  we  need  an 
interpreter;  but  the  great  majority  of  men  seem  to  be 
minors,  who  have  not  yet  come  into  possession  of  their  own, 
or  mutes,  who  cannot  report  the  conversation  they  have  had 
with  nature.  There  is  no  man  who  does  not  anticipate  a 
supersensual  utility  in  the  sun,  and  stars,  earth,  and  water. 
These  stand  and  wait  to  render  him  a  peculiar  service. 
But  there  is  some  obstruction,  or  some  excess  of  phlegm  in 
our  constitution,  which  does  not  suffer  them  to  yield  the 
due  effect.  The  impressions  of  nature  fall  on  us  too  feebly 
to  make  us  artists.  Every  touch  should  thrill.  Every  man 
should  be  so  much  an  artist,  that  he  could  report  in  con 
versation  what  had  befallen  him.  Yet,  in  our  experience, 
the  rays  or  app'ulses  have  sufficient  force  to  arrive  at  the 
senses,  but  not  enough  to  reach  the  quick,  and  compel  the 
reproduction  of  themselves  in  speech.  The -poet  is  the 
rjerson  in  whom  these  powers  are  in  balance,  the  man  with 
out  impediment,  who  sees  and  handles  that  which  others 
dream  of,  reverses  the  whole  scale  of  experience,  and  is 
representative  of  man,  in  virtue  of  being  the  largest  power 
to  receive  and  to  impart. 

For  the  Universe  has  three  children,  born  at  one  time, 
which  reappear,  under  different  names,  in  every  system  of 
thought,  whether  they  be  called  cause,  operation,  and  effect; 
or,  more  poetically,  Jove,  Pluto,  Neptune;  or,  theologically, 
the  Father,  the  Spirit,  and  the  Son;  but  which  we  will  call 
here,  the  Knower,  the  Doer,  and  the  Sayer.  These  stand 
respectively  for  the  love  of  truth,  the  love  of  good, 
and  the  love  of  beauty.  These  three  are  equal.  Each 
is  that  which  he  is  essentially,  so  that  he  cannot  be 
surmounted  or  analyzed,  and  each  of  these  three  has  the 
power  of  the  others  latent  in  him,  and  his  own  patent. 

The  poet  is  the  sayer,  the  namer,  and  represents  beauty. 
He  is  a  sovereign,  and  stands  on  the  center.  For  the  world 
is  not  painted,  or  adorned,  but  is  from  the  beginning  beauti 
ful;  and  God  has  not  made  some  beautiful  things,  but  Beauty 
is  the  creator  of  the  universe.  Therefore  the  poet  is  not 
any  permissive  potentate,  but  is  emperor  in  his  own  right. 
Criticism  is  infested  with  a  cant  of  materialism,'  which  as- 


THE   POET  405 

sumes  that  manual  skill  and  activity  is  the  first  merit  of 
all  men,  and  disparages  such  as  say  and  do  not,  overlooking 
the  fact,  that  some  men,  namely,  poets,  are  natural  sayers, 
sent  into  the  world  to  the  end  of  expression,  and  it  confounds 
them  with  those  whose  province  is  action,  but  who  quit 
it  to  imitate  the  sayers.  But  Homer's  words  are  as  costly 
and  admirable  to  Homer,  as  Agamemnon's  victories  are 
to  Agamemnon.  The  poet  does  not  wait  for  the  hero  or 
the  sage,  but,  as  they  act  and  think  primarily,  so  he  writes 
primarily  what  will  and  mast  be  spoken,  reckoning  the 
others,  though  primaries  also,  yet,  in  respect  to  him,  secon 
daries  and  servants;  as  sitters  or  models  in  the  studio  of  a 
painter,  or  as  assistants  who  bring  building  materials  to  an 
architect. 

For  poetry  was  all  written  before  time  was,  and  when 
ever  we  are  FO  finely  organized  that  we  can  penetrate  into 
that  region  where  the  air  is  music,  we  hear  those  primal 
warblings,  and  attempt  to  write  them  down,  but  we  lose 
ever  and  anon  a  word,  or  a  verse,  and  substitute  some 
thing  of  our  own,  and  thus  miswrite  the  poem.  The 
men  of  more  delicate  ear  write  down  these  cadences  more 
faithfully,  and  these  transcripts,  though  imperfect,  become 
tho  songs  of  the  nations.  For  nature  is  as  truly  beautiful 
as  it  is  good,  or  as  it  is  reasonable,  and  must  as  much  appear, 
as  it  must  be  done,  or  be  known.  Words  and  deeds  are 
quite  indifferent  modes-  of  the  divine  energy.  Words  are 
also  actions,  and  actions  are  a  kind  of  words. 

The  sign  and  credentials  of  the  poet  are,  that  he  announces 
that  which  no  man  foretold.  He  is  the  true  and  only  doctor; 
he  knows  and  tells;  he  is  the  only  teller  of  news,  for  he  was 
present  and  privy  to  the  appearance  which  he  describes. 
He  is  a  beholder  of  ideas,  and  an  utterer  of  the  necessary 
and  causal.  We  do  not  speak  now  of  men  of  poetical" 
talents,  or  of  industry  and  skill  in  metre,  but  of  the  true 
poet.  I  took  part  in  a  conversation  the  other  day,  con 
cerning  a  recent  writer  of  lyrics,  a  man  of  subtle  mind, 
whose  head  appeared  to  be  a  music-box  of  delicate  tunes 
and  rhythms,  and  whose  skill,  and  command  of  language, 
we  could  not  sufficiently  praise.  But  when  the  question 


406  THE  POET 

arose,  whether  he  were  not  only  a  lyrist,  but  a  poet,  we 
were  obliged  to  confess  that  he  is  plainly  a  contemporary, 
not  an  eternal  man.  He  does  not  stand  out  of  our  low 
limitations,  like  a  Chimborazo  under  the  line,  running 
,  up  from  the  torrid  base  through  all  the  climates  of  the  globe, 
with  belts  of  the  herbage  of  every  latitude  on  its  high  and 
mottled  sides;  but  this  genius  is  the  landscape  garden  of  a 
modern  house,  adorned  with  fountains  and  statues,  with 
well-bred  men  and  women  standing  and  sitting  in  the  walks 
and  terraces.  We  hear,  through  all  the  varied  music,  the 
ground-tone  of  conventional  life.  Our  poets  are  men  of 
•  /talents  who  sing,  and  not  the  children  of  music.  The 
^argument  is  secondary,  the  finish  of  the  verses  is  primary. 
For  it  is  not  metres,  but  a  metre-making  argument,  that 
makes  a  poem, — a  thought  so  passionate  and  alive,  that, 
like  the  spirit  of  a  plant  or  an  animal,  it  has  an  architecture 
of  its  own,  and  adorns  nature  with  a  new  thing.  The 
thought  and  ihe  form  are  equal  in  the  order  of  time,  but 
in  the  order  of  genesis  the  thought  is  prior  to  the  form. 
The  poet  has  a  new  thought :  he  has  a  whole  new  experience 
to  unfold;  he  will  tell  us  how  it  was  with  him,  and  all  men 
will  be  the  riche.  in  his  fortune.  The  experience  of  each 
new  age  requires  a  new  confession,  and  the  world  seems 
always  waiting  for  its  poet.  I  remember,  when  I  was  young, 
how  much  I  was  moved  one  morning  by  tidings  that  genius 
had  appeared  in  a  youth  who  sat  near  me  at  table.  He 
had  left  his  work,  and  gone  rambling  none  knew  whither, 
and  had  written  hundreds  of  lines,  but  could  not  tell  whether 
that  which  was  in  him  was  therein  told :  he  could  tell  nothing 
but  that  all  was  changed — man,  beast,  heaven,  earth,  and 
sea.  How  gladly  we  -listened!  how  credulous!  Society 
seemed  to  be  compromised.  We  sat  in  the  aurora  of  a  sun 
rise  which  was  to  put  out  all  the  stars.  Boston  seemed  to 
be  at  twice  the  distance  it  had  the  night  before,  or 
was  much  farther  than  that.  Rome, — what  was  Rome? 
Plutarch  and  Shakspeare  were  in  the  yellow  leaf,  and  Homer 
no  more  should  be  heard  of.  It  is  much  to  know  that  poetry 
has  been  written  this  very  day,  under  this  very  roof,  by  your 
side.  What!  that  wonderful  spirit  has  not  expired!  these 


THE  POET  407 

stony  moments  are  still  sparkling  and  animated!  I  had 
fancied  that  the  oracles  were  all  silent,  and  nature  had 
spent  her  fires,  and  behold !  all  night,  from  every  pore,  these 
fine  auroras  have  been  streaming.  Every  one  has  some  in 
terest  in  the  advent  of  the  poet,  and  no  one  knows  how 
much  it  may  concern  him.  We  know  that  the  secret  of  the 
world  is  profound,  but  who  or  what  shall  be  our  interpreter, 
we  know  not.  A  mountain  ramble,  a  new  style  of  face,  a 
new  person,  may  put  the  key  into  our  hands.  Of  course, 
the  value  of  genius  to  us  is  in  the  veracity  of  its  report. 
Talent  may  frolic  and  juggle;  genius  realizes  and  adds. 
Mankind,  in  good  earnest,  have  gone  so  far  in  understand 
ing  themselves  and  their  work,  and  the  foremost  watchman 
on  the  peak  announces  his  news.  It  is  the  truest  word 
ever  spoken,  and  the  phrase  will  be  the  fittest,  most  musical, 
and  the  unerring  voice  of  the  world  for  the  time. 

All  that  we  call  sacred  history  attests  that  the  birth  of 
a  poet  is  the  principal  event  in  chronology.  Man,  never 
so  often  deceived,  still  watches  for  the  arrival  of  a  brother 
who  can  hold  him  steady  to  a  truth,  until  he  has  made  it 
his  own.  With  what  joy  I  begin  to  read  a  poem,  which  I 
confide  in  as  an  inspiration !  And  now  my  chains  are  to  be 
broken;  I  shall  mount  above  these  clouds  and  opaque  airs 
in  which  I  live, — opaque,  though  they  seem  transparent, — 
and  from  the  heaven  of  truth  I  shall  see  and  comprehend 
my  relations.  That  will  reconcile  me  to  life,  and  renovate 
nature,  to  see  trifles  animated  by  a  tendency,  and  to  know 
what  I  am  doing.  Life  will  no  more  be  a  noise ;  now  I  shall 
see  men  and  women,  and  know  the  signs  by  which  they  may 
be  discerned  from  fools  and  satans.  This  day  shall  be 
better  than  my  birtji-day:  then  I  became  an  animal:  now 
I  am  invited  into<5purec^cie<nce!  *^iich  is  the  hope,  but  the 
fruition  is  postponed.  Oftener  it  falls,  that  this  winged 
man,  who  will  carry  me  into  the  heaven,  whirls  me  into  the 
clouds,  then  leaps  and  frisks  about  with  me  from  cloud  to 
cloud,  still  affirming  that  he  is  bound  heavenward;  and  I, 
being  myself  a  novice,  am  slow  in  perceiving  that  he  does 
not  know  the  way  into  the  heavens,  and  is  merely  bent 
that  I  should  admire  his  skill  to  rise,  like  a  fowl  or  a  flying- 


408  THE   POET 

fish,  a  little  way  from  the  ground  or  the  water;  but  the  all- 
piercing,  all-feeding,  and  ocular  air  of  heaven,  that  man 
shall  never  inhabit.  I  tumble  down  again  soon  into  my  old 
nooks,  and  lead  the  life  of  exaggerations  as  before,  and  have 
lost  my  faith  in  the  possibility  of  any  guide  who  can  lead 
me  thither  where  I  would  be. 

But  leaving  these  victims  of  vanity,  let  us,  with  new  hope, 
observe  how  nature,  by  worthier  impulses,  has  insured  the 
poet's  fidelity  to  his  office  of  announcing  and  affirming,  by 
the  beauty  of  things,  which  becomes  a  new  and  higher  beauty 
when  expressed.  Nature  offers  all  her  creatures  to  him  as 
a  picture-language.  Being  used  as  a  type,  a  second  won 
derful  value  appears  in  the  object,  far  better  than  its  old 
value,  as  the  carpenter's  stretched  cord,  if  you  hold  your 
ear  close  enough,  is  musical  in  the  breeze.  "Things  more 
excellent  than  every  image,"  says  Jamblichus,  "are  ex 
pressed  through  images."  Things  admit  of  being  used  as 
symbols,  because  nature  is  a  symbol,  in  the  whole,  and  in 
every  part.  Every  line  we  can  draw  in  the  sand  has  ex 
pression;  and  there  is  no  body  without  its  spirit  or  genius. 
All  form  is  an  effort  of  character;  all  condition,  of  the 
quality  of  the  life;  all  harmony,  of  health;  (and,  for  this 
reason,  a  perception  of  beauty  should  be  sympathetic,  or 
proper,  only  to  the  good).  The  beautiful  rests  on  the 
foundations  of  the  necessary,  The'  soul  makes  the  body, 
as  the  wise  Spenser  teaches: — 

"So  every  spirit,  as  it  is  most  pure, 
And  hath  in  it  the  more  of  heavenly  light, 
So  it  the  fairer  body  doth  procure 

/To  habit  in,  and  it  more  fairly  dight, 
With  cheerful  grace  and  amiable  sight. 
.  For,  of  the  soul,  the  body  form  doth  take, 
For  soul  is  form,  and  doth  the  body  make." 

Here  we  find  ourselves,  suddenly,  not  in  the  pleasant  walks 
of  critical  speculation,  but  in  a  holy  place,  and  should  go 
very  warily  and  reverently.  We  stand  before  the  secret 
of  the  world, — there  where  Being  passes  into  Appearance, 
and  Unity  into  Variety. 

The^JJni verse  is  Jjie  externization  of  the  soul.    Wher 
ever  the  life  is,  that  bursts  into  appearance  around  it.    Our 


THE   POET  409 

science  is  sensual,  and  therefore  superficial.  The  earth, 
and  the  heavenly  bodies,  physics,  and  chemistry,  we  sen 
sually  treat,  as  if  they  were  self-existent;  but  these  are  the 
retinue  of  that  Being  we  have.  "The  mighty  heaven/' 
says  Proclus,  "exhibits,  in  its  transfigurations,  clear  images 
of  the  splendor  of  intellectual  perceptions;  being  moved  in 
conjunction  with  the  imapparent  periods  of  intellectual 
natures."  Therefore,  science  always  goes  abreast  with  the 
just  elevation  of  the  man,  keeping  step  with  religion  and 
metaphysics;  or,  the  state  of  science  is  an  index  of  our  self- 
I  knowledge.  Since  every  thing  in  nature  answers  to  a  moral 
power,  if  any  phenomenon  remains  brute  and  dark,  it  is 
because  the  corresponding  faculty  in  the  observer  is  not 
yet  active.  No  wonder,  then,  if  these  waters  be  so 
deep,  that  we  hover  over  them  with  a  religious  regard. 
The  beauty  of  the  fable  proves  the  importance  of  the  sense, 
to  the  poet,  and  to  all  others;  or,  if  you  please,  every  man 
is  so  far  a  poet  as  to  be  susceptible  of  these  enchantments 
of  nature:  for  all  men  have  the  thoughts  of  which  the  uni 
verse  is  the  celebration.  I  find  that  the  fascination  resides 
in  the  symbol.  Who  loves  nature?  Who  does  not?  Is  it 
only  poets,  and  men  of  leisure  and  cultivation,  who  live  with 
her?  No;  but  also  hunters,  farmers,  grooms,  and  butchers, 
though  they  express  their  affection  in  their  choice  of  life, 
and  not  in  their  choice  of  words.  The  writer  wonders 
what  the  coachman  or  the  hunter  values  in  riding,  in  horses, 
and  dogs.  It  is  not  superficial  qualities.  When  you  talk 
with  him,  he  holds  these  at  as  slight  a  rate  as  you.  His 
worship  is  sympathetic:  he  has  no  definitions,  but  he  is 
commanded  in  nature,  by  the  living  power  which  he  feels  to 
be  -there  present.  No  imitation,  or  playing  of  these  things, 
would  content  him;  he  loves  the  earnest  of  the  north- wind, 
of  rain,  of  stone,  and  wood,  and  iron.  A  beauty  not  ex- 
.  plicable  is  dearer  than  a  beauty  which  we  can  see  to  the 
end  of.  It  is  nature  the  symbol,  nature  certifying  the  super 
natural,  body  overflowed  by  life,  which  he  worships  with 
coarse,  but  sincere  rites. 

The  inwardness,  and  mystery,  of  this  attachment,  drives 
men  of  every  class  to  the  use  of  emblems.    The  schools 


410  THE   POET 

of  poets,  and  philosophers,  are  not  more  intoxicated  with 
their  symbols,  than  the  populace  with  theirs.  In  our  poli 
tical  parties,  compute  the  power  of  badges  and  emblems. 
See  the  great  ball  which  they  roll  from  Baltimore  to  Bunker 
hill!  In  the  political  processions,  Lowell  goes  in  a  loom, 
and  Lynn  in  a  shoe,  and  Salem  in  a  ship.  Witness  the 
cider-barrel,  the  log-cabin,  the  hickory-stick,  the  palmetto, 
and  all  the  cognizances  of  party.  See  the  power  of  national 
emblems.  Some  stars,  lilies,  leopards,  a  crescent,  a  lion, 
an  eagle,  or  other  figure,  which  came  into  credit  God  knows 
how,  on  an  old  rag  of  bunting,  blowing  in  the  wind,  on  a  fort, 
at  the  ends  of  the  earth,  shall  make  the  blood  tingle  under 
the  rudest,  or  the  most  conventional  exterior.  The  people 
fancy  they  hate  poetry,  and  they  are  all  poets  and  mystics ! 
Beyond  this  universality  of  the  symbolic  language,  we  are 
apprised  of  the  divineness  of  this  superior  use  of  things, 
(whereby  the  world  is  a  temple,  whose  walls  are  covered 
with  emblems,  pictures,  and  commandments  of  the  Deity,) 
in  this,  that  there  is  no  fact  in  nature  which  does  not  carry 
the  whole  sense  of  nature;  and  the  distinctions  which  we 
make  in  events,  and  in  affairs,  of  low  and  high,  honest  and 
base,  disappear  when  nature  is  used  as  a  symbol.  Thought 
makes  every  thing  fit  for  use.  The  vocabulary  of  an  omnis 
cient  man  would  embrace  words  and  images  excluded  from 
polite  conversation.  What  would  be  base,  or  even  obscene, 
to  the  obscene,  becomes  illustrious,  spoken  in  a  new  con 
nection  of  thought.  The  piety  of  the  Hebrew  prophets 
purges  their  grossness.  The  circumcision  is  an  example  of 
the  power  of  poetry  to  raise  the  low  and  offensive.  Small 
and  mean  things  serve  as  well  as  great  symbols.  The 
meaner  the  type  by  which  a  law  is  expressed,  the  more  pun 
gent  it  is,  and  the  more  lasting  in  the  memories  of  men:  just 
as  we  choose  the  smallest  box,  or  case,  in  which  any  need 
ful  utensil  can  be  carried.  Bare  lists  of  words  are  found 
suggestive  to  an  imaginative  and  excited  mind;  as  it  is  re 
lated  of  Lord  Chatham,  that  he  was  accustomed  to  read  in 
Baily's  Dictionary  when  he  was  preparing  to  speak  in  Par 
liament.  The  poorest  experience  is  rich  enough  for  all  the 
purposes  of  expressing  thought.  Why  covet  a  knowledge 


THE  POET  411 

of  new  facts?  Day  and  night,  house  and  garden,  a  few 
books,  a  few  actions,  serve  us  as  well  as  would  all  trades  and 
all  spectacles.  We  are  far  from  having  exhausted  the 
significance  of  the  few  symbols  we  use.  We  can  come  to  use 
them  yet  with  a  terrible  simplicity.  It  does  not  need 
that  a  poem  should  be  long.  Every  word  was  once  a  poem. 
Every  new  relation  is  a  new  word.  Also,  we  use  defects  and 
deformities  to  a  sacred  purpose, — so  expressing  our  sense 
that  the  evils  of  the  world  are  such  only  to  the  evil  eye. 
In  the  old  mythology,  mythologists  observe,  defects  are 
ascribed  to  divine  natures,  as  lameness  to  Vulcan,  blindness 
to  Cupid,  and  the  like,  to  signify  exuberances. 

It  is  dislocation  and  detachment  from  the  life  of  God  that 
makes,  things  ugly,  and  the  poet,  who  re-attaches  things  to 
nature  and  the  Whole, — re-attaching  even  artificial  things, 
and  violations  of  nature,  to  nature,  by  a  deeper  insight, — 
disposes  very  easily  of  the  most  disagreeable  facts.  Readers 
of  poetry  see  the  factory-village,  and  the  railway,  and  fancy 
that  the  poetry  of  the  landscape  is  broken  up  by  these, — 
for  these  works  of  art  are  not  yet  consecrated  in  their  read 
ing;  but  the  poet  sees  them  fall  within  the  great  order  not 
less  than  the  bee-hive,  or  the  spider's  geometrical  web.  Nat 
ure  adopts  them  very  fast  into  her  vital  circles,  and  the 
gliding  train  of  cars  she  loves  like  her  own.  Besides,  in  a 
centered  mind,  it  signifies  nothing  how  many  mechanical 
inventions  you  exhibit.  Though  you  add  millions,  and 
never  so  surprising,  the  fact  of  mechanics  has  not  gained  a 
grain's  weight.  The  spiritual  fact  remains  unalterable, 
by  many  or  by  few  particulars;  as  no  mountain  is  of  any 
appreciable  height  to  break  the  curve  of  the  sphere.  A 
shrewd  country-boy  goes  to  the  city  for  the  first  time,  and 
the  complacent  citizen  is  not  satisfied  with  his  little  wonder. 
It  is  not  that  he  does  not  see  all  the  fine  houses,  and  know 
that  he  never  saw  such  before,  but  he  disposes  of  them  as 
easily  as  the  poet  finds  place  for  the  railway.  The  chief 
value  of  the  new  fact,  is  to  enhance  the  great  and  constant 
fact  of  Life,  which  can  dwarf  any  and  every  circumstance, 
and  to  which  the  belt  of  wampum,  and  the  commerce  of 
America,  are  alike. 


412  THE   POET 

The  world  being  thus  put  under  the  mind  for  verb  and 
noun,  the  poet  is  he  who  can  articulate  it.  For,  though 
life  is  great,  and  fascinates,  and  absorbs, — and  though  all 
men  are  intelligent  of  the  symbols  through  which  it  is 
named, — yet  they  cannot  originally  use  them.  We  are 
symbols,  and  inhabit  symbols;  workmen,  work,  and  tools, 
words  and  things,  birth  and  death,  all  are  emblems; 
but  we  sympathize  with  the  symbols,  and,  being  infatuated 
with  the  economical  uses  of  things,  we  do  not  know 
that  they  are  thoughts.  The  poet,  by  an  ulterior 
intellectual  perception,  gives  them  a  power  which 
makes  their  old  use  forgotten,  and  puts  eyes,  and  a 
tongue,  into  every  dumb  and  inanimate  object.  He  per 
ceives  the  independence  of  the  thought  on  the  sym 
bol, — the  stability  of  the  thought,  the  accidency  and 
fugitiveness  of  the  symbol.  As  the  eyes  of  Lyncseus  were 
said  to  see  through  the  earth,  so  the  poet  turns  the  world  to 
glass,  and  showd  us  all  things  in  their  right  series  and  pro 
cession.  For,  through  that  better  perception,  he  stands 
one  step  nearer  to  things,  and  sees  the  flowing  or  meta 
morphosis;  perceives  that  thought  is  multiform;  that  within 
the  form  of  every  creature  is  a  force  impelling  it  to  ascend 
into  a  higher  form:  and,  following  with  his  eyes  the  life, 
uses  the  forms  which  express  that  life,  and  so  his  speech  flows 
with  the  flowing  of  nature.  All  the  facts  of  the  animal 
economy,  sex,  nutriment,  gestation,  birth,  growth,  are  sym 
bols  of  the  passage  of  the  world  into  the  soul  of  man,  to 
suffer  there  a  change,  and  reappear  a  new  and  higher  fact. 
He  uses  forms  according  to  the  life,  and  not  according  to  the 
form.  This  is  true  science.  The  poet  alone  knows  astron 
omy,  chemistry,  vegetation,  and  animation;  for  he  does 
not  stop  at  these  facts,  but  employs  them  as  signs..  He 
knows  why  the  field  of  space  was  strown  with  these  flowers 
we  call  suns  and  moons  and  stars;  why  the  great  deep  is 
adorned  with  animals,  with  men,  and  gods;  for,  in  every 
word  he  speaks  he  rides  on  them  as  the  horses  of  thought. 

By  virtue  of  this  science  the  poet  is  the  Namer  or  Lan 
guage-maker,  naming  things  sometimes  after  their  ap 
pearance,  sometimes  after  their  essence,  and  giving  to 


THE   POET  413 

every  one  its  own  name  and  not  another's  there 
by  rejoicing  the  intellect,  which  delights  in  detachment  or 
boundary.  The  poets  made  all  the  words,  and  therefore  lan 
guage  is  the  archives  of  history,  and,  if  we  must  say  it,  a 
sort  of  tomb  of  the  muses.  For,  though  the  origin  of  most 
of  our  words  is  forgotten,  each  word  was  at  first  a  stroke  of 
genius,  and  obtained  currency,  because  for  the  moment  it 
symbolized  the  world  to  the  first  speaker  and  to  the  hearer. 
The  etymologist  finds  the  deadest  word  to  have  been  once  a 
brilliant  picture.  Language  is  fossil  poetry.  As  the  lime 
stone  of  the  continent  scoiisists~-of-infmite  masses  of  the 
shells  of  animalcules,  so  language  is  made  up  of  images,  or 
tropes,  which  now,  in  their  secondary  use,  have  long  ceased 
to  remind  us  of  their  poetic  origin.  But  the  poet  names  the 
thing  because  he  sees  it,  or  comes  one  step  nearer  to  it  than 
any  other.  This  expression,  or  naming,  is  not  art,  but  a 
second  nature,  grown  out  of  the  first,  as  a  leaf  out  of  a 
tree.  What  we  call  nature,  is  a  certain  self-regulated 
motion  or  change;  and  nature  does  all  things  by  her  own 
hands,  and  does  not  leave  another  to  baptize  her,  but 
baptizes  herself;  and  this  through  the  metamorphosis 
again.  I  remember  that  a  certain  poet  described  it  to  me 
thus : 

> 

Genius  is  the  activity  which  repairs  the  decays  of  things, 
whether  wholly  or  partly  of  a  material  and  finite  kind. 
Nature,  through  all  her  kingdoms,  insures  herself.  Nobody 
cares  for  planting  the  poor  fungus :  so  she  shakes  down  from 
the  gills  of  one  agaric,  countless  spores  any  one  of  which, 
being  preserved,  transmits  new  billions  of  spores  to-morrow, 
or  next  day.  The  new  agaric  of  this  hour  has  a  chanre 
which  the  old  one  had  not.  This  atom  of  seed  is  thrown  into 
a  new  place,  not  subject  to  the  accidents  which  destroyed 
its  parent  two  rods  off.  She  makes  a  man:  and  having 
brought  him  to  ripe  age,  she  will  no  longer  run  the  risk  of 
1  losing  this  wonder  at  a  blow,  but  she  detaches  from  him  a 
new  self,  that  the  kind  may  be  safe  from  accidents  to  which 
the  individual  is  exposed.  So  when  the  soul  of  the  poet  has 
come  to  ripeness  of  thought,  she  detaches  and  sends  away 


414  THE   POET 

from  it  its  poems  or  songs, — a  fearless,  sleepless,  deathless 
progeny,  which  is  not  exposed  to  the  accidents  of  the  king 
dom  of  time:  a  fearless,  vivacious  offspring,  clad  with  wings 
(such  was  the  virtue  of  the  soul  out  of  which  they  came), 
which  carry  them  fast  and  far,  and  infix  them  irrevocably  into 
the  hearts  of  men.  These  wings  are  the  beauty  of  the  poet's 
soul.  The  songs,  thus  flying  immortal  from  their  mortal  par 
ent,  are  pursued  by  clamorous  flights  of  censures,  which  swarm 
in  far  greater  numbers,  and  threaten  to  devour  them;  but 
these  last  are  not  winged.  At  the  end  of  a  very  short  leap  they 
fall  plump  down,  and  rot,  having  received  from  the  souls 
out  of  which  they  came  no  beautiful  wings.  But  the  melo 
dies  of  the  poet  ascend,  and  leap,  and  pierce  into  the  deeps 
of  infinite  time. 

So  far  the  bard  taught  me,  using  his  freer  speech.  But 
nature  has  a  higher  end,  in  the  production  of  new  individuals, 
than  security,  namely,  ascension,  or,  the  passage  of  the  soul 
into  higher  forms.  I  knew,  in  my  younger  days,  the  sculp 
tor  who  made  the  statue  of  the  youth  which  stands  in  the 
public  garden.  He  was,  as  I  remember,  unable  to  tell, 
directly,  what  made  him  happy,  or  unhappy,  but  by  wonder 
ful  indirections  he  could  tell.  He  rose  one  day,  according 
to  his  habit,  before  the  dawn,  and  saw  the  morning  break, 
grand  as  the  eternity  out  of  which  it  came,  and,  for  many 
days  after,  he  strove  to  express  this  tranquillity,  and,  lo! 
his  chisel  had  fashioned  out  of  marble,  the  form  of  a  beauti 
ful  youth,  Phosphorus,  whose  aspect  is  such,  that,  it  is 
said,  all  persons  who  look  on  it  become  silent.  The  poet 
also  resigns  himself  to  his  mood,  and  that  thought  which 
agitated  him  is  expressed,  but  alter  idem,  in  a  manner 
totally  new.  The  expression  is  organic,  or,  the  new  type 
which  things  themselves  take  when  liberated.  As,  in  the 
sun,  objects  paint  their  images  on  the  retina  of  the  eye,  so 
they,  sharing  the  aspiration  of  the  whole  universe,  tend  to 
paint  a  far  more  delicate  copy  of  their  essence  in  his  mind. 
Like  the  metamorphosis  of  things  into  higher  organic 
forms,  is  their  change  into  melodies.  Over  everything 
stands  its  dsemon,  or  soul,  and  as  the  form  of  the  thing  is 
reflected  by  the  eye,  so  the  soul  of  the  thing  is  reflected  by 


THE   POET  415 

a  melody.  The  sea,  the  mountain-ridge,  Niagara,  and  every 
flower-bed,  pre-exist,  or  super-exist  in  pre-cantations,  which 
sail  like  odors  in  the  air,  and  when  any  man  goes  by  with  an 
ear  sufficiently  fine,  he  over-hears  them,  and  endeavors  to 
write  down  the  notes,  without  diluting  or  depraving  them.  And 
herein  is  the  legitimation  of  criticism,  in  the  mind's  faith, 
that  the  poems  are  a  corrupt  version  of  some  text  in  nature, 
with  which  they  ought  to  be  made  tally.  A  rhyme  in  one 
of  our  sonnets  should  not  be  less  pleasing  than  the  iterated 
nodes  of  a  sea-shell,  or  the  resembling  difference  of  a  group 
of  flowers.  The  pairing  of  the  birds  is  an  idyl,  not  tedious 
as  our  idyls  are;  a  tempest  is  a  rough  ode  without  falsehood 
or  rant;  a  summer,  with  its  harvest  sown,  reaped,  and 
stored,  is  an  epic  song,  subordinating  how  many  admirably 
executed  parts.  Why  should  not  the  symmetry  and  truth 
that  modulate  these,  glide  into  our  spirits,  and  we  partici 
pate  the  invention  of  nature  ? 

This  insight,  which  expresses  itself  by  what  is  called 
Imagination,  is  a  very  high  sort  of  seeing,  which  does  not 
come  by  study,  but  by  the  intellect  being  where  and  what 
it  sees,  by  sharing  the  path,  or  circuit  of  things  through 
forms,  and  so  making  them  translucid  to  others.  The  path 
of  things  is  silent.  Will  they  suffer  a  speaker  to  go  with 
them?  A  spy  they  will  not  suffer;  a  lover,  a  poet,  is  the 
transcendency  of  their  own  nature, — him  they  will  suffer. 
The  condition  of  true  naming,  on  the  poet's  part,  is  his 
resigning  himself  to  the  divine  aura  which  breathes  through 
forms,  and  accompanying  that. 

It  is  a  secret  which  every  intellectual  man  quickly  learns, 
that,  beyond  the  energy  of  his  possessed  and  conscious  in 
tellect,  he  is  capable  of  a  new  energy  (as  of  an  intellect 
doubled  on  itself),  by  abandonment  to  the  nature  of  things; 
that,  beside  his  privacy  of  power  as  an  individual  man, 
there  is  a  great  public  power,  on  which  he  can  draw,  by 
unlocking,  at  all  risks,  his  human  doors,  and  suffering  the 
ethereal  tides  to  roll  and  circulate  through  him:  then  he  is 
caught  up  into  the  life  of  the  Universe,  his  speech  is  thunder, 
his  thought  is  law,  and  his  words  are  universally  intelligible 
as  the  plants  and  animals.  The  poet  knows  that  he  speaks 


416  THE   POET 

adequately,  then  only  when  he  speaks  somewhat  wildly,  or, 
"with  the  flower  of  the  mind;"  not  with  the  intellect,  used 
as  an  organ,  but  with  the  intellect  released  from  all  service, 
and  suffered  to  take  its  direction  from  its  celestial  life;  or, 
as  the  ancients  were  wont  to  express  themselves,  not  with 
intellect  alone,  but  with  the  intellect  inebriated  by  nectar. 
As  the  traveller  who  has  lost  his  way,  throws  his  reins  on  his 
horse's  neck,  and  trusts  to  the  instinct  of  the  animal  to  find 
his  road,  so  must  we  do  with  the  divine  animal  who  carries 
us  through  the  world.  For  if  in  any  manner  we  can  stimu 
late  this  instinct,  new  passages  are  opened  for  us  into  nature, 
the  mind  flows  into  and  through  things  hardest  and  highest, 
and  the  metamorphosis  is  possible. 

This  is  the  reason  why  bards  love  wine,  mead,  narcotics, 
coffee,  tea,  opium,  the  fumes  of  sandal-wood  and  tobacco, 
or  whatever  other  species  of  animal  exhilaration.  All  men 
avail  themselves  of  such  means  as  they  can,  to  add  this 
extraordinary  power  to  their  normal  powers;  and  to  this 
end  they  prize  conversation,  music,  pictures,  sculpture, 
dancing,  theatres,  travelling,  war,  mobs,  fires,  gaming,  poli 
tics,  or  love,  or  science,  or  animal  intoxication,  which  are 
several  coarser  or  finer  Q^asi-mechanical  substitutes  for 
the  true  nectar,  which  is  the  ravishment  of  the  intellect  by 
coming  nearer  to  the  fact.  These  are  auxiliaries  to  the 
centrifugal  tendency  of  a  man,  to  his  passage  out  into  free 
space,  and  they  help  him  to  escape  the  custody  of  that  body 
in  which  he  is  pent  up,  and  of  that  jail-yard  of  individual 
relations  in  which  he  is  enclosed.  Hence,  a  great  number  of 
such  as  were  professionally  expressers  of  Beauty,  as  paint 
ers,  poets,  musicians,  and  actors,  have  been  more  than 
others  wont  to  lead  a  life  of  pleasure  and  indulgence;  all 
but  the  few  who  received  the  true  nectar;  and,  as  it  was 
a  spurious  mode  of  attaining  freedom,  as  it  was  an  eman 
cipation  not  into  the  heavens,  but  into  the  freedom  of 
baser  places,  they  were  punished  for  that  advantage  they 
won,  by  a  dissipation  and  deterioration.  But  never  can 
any  advantage  be  taken  of  nature  by  a  trick.  The  spirit 
of  the  world,  the  great  calm  presence  of  the  creator,  comes 
not  forth  to  the  sorceries  of  opium  or  of  wine.  The  sub- 


THE   POET  417 

lime  vision  comes  to  the  pure  and  simple  soul  in  a  clean 
and  chaste  body.  That  which  we  owe  to  narcotics  is  not 
an  inspiration,  but  some  counterfeit  excitement  and  fury. 
Milton  says,  that  the  lyric  poet  may  drink  wine  and  live 
generously,  but  the  epic  poet,  he  who  shall  sing  of  the  gods, 
and  their  descent  unto  men,  must  drink  water  out  of  a  wood 
en  bowl.  For  poetry  is  not  "Devil's  wine/'  but  God's  wine. 
It  is  with  this  as  it  is  with  toys.  We  fill  the  hands  and  nurs 
eries  of  our  children  with  all  manner  of  dolls,  drums,  and 
horses,  withdrawing  their  eyes  from  the  plain  face  and  suf 
ficing  objects  of  nature,  the  sun,  the  moon,  the  animals, 
the  water,  and  stones,  which  should  be  their  toys.  So  the 
poet's  habit  of  living  should  be  set  on  a  key  so  low  and 
plain,  that  the  common  influences  should  delight  him.  His 
cheerfulness  should  be  the  gift  of  the  sunlight;  the  air 
should  suffice  for  his  inspiration,  and  he  should  be  tipsy  with 
water.  That  spirit  which  suffices  quiet  hearts,  which  seems 
to  come  forth  to  such  from  every  dry  knoll  of  sere  grass, 
from  every  pine-stump,  and  half-imbedded  stone,  on  which 
the  dull  March  sun  shines,  comes  forth  to  the  poor  and 
hungry,  and  such  as  are  of  simple  taste.  If  thou  fill  thy 
brain  with  Boston  and  New  York,  with  fashion  and  covet- 
ousness,  and  wilt  stimulate  thy  jaded  senses  with  wine  and 
French  coffee,  thou  shalt  find  no  radiance  of  wisdom  in 
he  lonely  waste  of  the  pine- woods. 

If  the  imagination  intoxicates  the  poet,  it  is  not  inactive 
n  other  men.  The  metamorphosis  excites  in  the  beholder 
j»n  emotion  of  joy.  The  use  of  symbols  has  a  certain  power 
of  emancipation  and  exhilaration  for  all  men.  We  seem 
to  be  touched  by  a  wand,  which  makes  us  dance  and  run 
about  happily,  like  children.  We  are  like  persons  who  come 
Dut  of  a  cave  or  cellar  into  the  open  air.  This  is  the  effect 
on  us  of  tropes,  fables,  oracles,  and  all  poetic  forms.  Poets 
are  thus  liberating  gods.  Men  have  really  got  a  new  sense, 
ttid  found  within  their  world  another  world,  or  nest  of 
worlds;  for,  the  metamorphosis  once  seen,  we  divine  that 
it  does  not  stop.  I  will  not  now  consider  how  much  this 
makes  the  charm  of  algebra  and  the  mathematics,  which  also 
Kave  their  tropes,  but  it  is  felt  in  every  definition;  as,  when 


418  THE  POET 

Aristotle  defines  space  to  be  an  immovable  vessel,  in  which 
things  are  contained;  or,  when  Plato  defines  a  line  to  be  a 
flowing  point;  or,  figure  to  be  bound  of  a  solid;  and 
many  the  like.  What  a  joyful  sense  of  freedom  we  have, 
when  Vitruvius  announces  the  old  opinion  of  artists, 
that  no  architect  can  build  any  house  well  who  does  not 
know  something  of  anatomy.  When  Socrates,  in  Charmides, 
tells  us  that  the  soul  is  cured  of  its  maladies  by  certain  in 
cantations,  and  that  these  incantations  are  beautiful  reasons, 
from  which  temperance  is  generated  in  souls;  when  Plato 
calls  the  world  an  animal;  and  Timseus  affirms  that  plants 
also  are  animals;  or  affirms  a  man  to  be  a  heavenly  tree, 
growing  with  his  root,  which  is  his  head,  upward;  and, 
as  George  Chapman,  following  him,  writes, — 

"So  in  our  tree  of  man,  whose  nervie  root 
Springs  in  his  top"; 

when  Orpheus  speaks  of  hoariness  as  "that  white  flower 
which  marks  extreme  old  age;"  when  Proclus  calls  the  uni-1 
verse  the  statue  of  the  intellect;  when  Chaucer,  in  his 
praise  of  "Gentilesse,"  compares  good  blood  in  mean  con 
dition  to  fire,  which,  though  carried  to  the  darkest  house  be 
twixt  this  and  the  mount  of  Caucasus,  will  yet  hold  its  nat 
ural  office,  and  burn  as  bright  as  if  twenty  thousand  men  did 
it  behold;  when  John  saw,  in  the  apocalypse,  the  ruin  of  the 
world  through  evil,  and  the  stars  fail  from  heaven,  as  the 
fig-tree  casteth  her  untimely  fruit;  when  Jilsop  reports  th§ 
whole  catalogue  of  common  daily  relations  through  the  mas4' 
querade  of  birds  and  beasts; — we  take  the  cheerful  hint  of 
the  immortality  of  our  essence,  and  its  versatile  habits  and 
escapes,  as  when  the  gypsies  say,  "it  is  in  vain  to  hang  them, 
\they  cannot  die." 

The  poets  are  thus  liberating  gods.  The  ancient  British  , 
bards  had  for  the  title  of  their  order,  "Those  who  are  freer 
throughout  the  world."  They  are  free,  and  they  make  free;* 
An  imaginative  book  renders  us  much  more  service  at  first,  by  ' 
stimulating  us  through  its  tropes,  than  afterward,  when  wej 
arrive  at  the  precise  sense  of  the  author.  I  think  nothing  is 
of  any  value  in  books,  excepting  the  transcendental  and 


THE   POET  419 

extraordinary.  If  a  man  is  inflamed  and  carried  away  by 
his  thought,  to  that  degree  that  he  forgets  the  authors  and 
the  public,  and  heeds  only  this  one  dream,  which  holds  him 
like  an  insanity,  let  me  read  his  paper,  and  you  may  have  all 
the  arguments,  and  histories,  and  criticism.  All  the  value 
which  attaches  to  Pythagoras,  Paracelsus,  Cornelius  Agrippa, 
Cardan,  Kepler,  Swedenborg,  Schelling,  Oken,  or  any  other 
who  introduces  questionable  facts  into  his  cosmogony,  as 
angels,  devils,  magic,  astrology,  palmistry,  mesmerism,  and 
so  on,  is  the  certificate  we  have  of  departure  from  routine, 
and  that  here  is  a  new  witness.  That  also  is  the  best  success 
in  conversation,  the  magic  of  liberty,  which  puts  the  world, 
like  a  ball,  in  our  hands.  How  cheap  even  the  liberty  then 
seems;  how  mean  to  study,  when  an  emotion  communicates 
to  the  intellect  the  power  to  sap  and  upheave  nature:  how 
great  the  perspective!  nations,  times,  systems,  enter  and  dis 
appear,  like  threads  in  tapestry  of  large  figure  and  many 
colors;  dream  delivers  us  to  dream,  and,  while  the  drunken 
ness  lasts,  we  will  sell  our  bed,  our  philosophy,  our  religion, 
in  our  opulence. 

There  is  good  reason  why  we  should  prize  this  liberation. 
The  fate  of  the  poor  shepherd;  who,  blinded  and  lost  in  the 
snow-storm,  perishes  in  a  drift  within  a  few  feet  of  his 
cottage  door,  is  an  emblem  of  the  state  of  man.  On  the 
brink  of  the  waters  of  life  and  truth,  we  are  miserably 
dying.  The  inaccessibleness  of  every  thought  but  that  we 
are  in,  is  wonderful.  What  if  you  come  near  to  it, — you 
'are  as  remote  when  you  are  nearest  as  when  you  are  farthest. 
Every  thought  is  also  a  prison;  every  heaven  is  also  a  prison. 
Therefore  we  love  the  poet,  the  inventor,  who  in  any  form, 
whether  in  an  ode,  or  in  an  action,  or  in  looks  and  be 
havior,  has  yielded  us  a  new  thought.  He  unlocks  our 
chains,  and  admits  us  to  a  new  scene. 

This  emancipation  is  dear  to  all  men;  and  the  power  to 
impart  it,  as  it  must  come  from  greater  depth  and  scope  of 
thought,  is  a  measure  of  intellect.  Therefore  all  books  of 
the  imagination  endure,  all  which  ascend  to  that  truth, 
that  the  writer  sees  nature  beneath  him,  and  uses  it  as 
his  exponent.  Every  verse  or  sentence,  possessing  this 


420  THE   POET 

virtue,  will  take  care  of  its  own  immortality.  The  reli 
gions  of  the  world  are  the  ejaculations  of  a  few  imaginative 
men. 

But  the  quality  of  the  imagination  is  to  flow,  and  not  to 
freeze.  The  poet  did  not  stop  at  the  color,  or  the  form, 
but  read  their  meaning;  neither  may  he  rest  in  this  meaning, 
but  he  makes  the  same  objects  exponents  of  his  new  thought. 
Here  is  the  difference  betwixt  the  poet  and  the  mystic,  that 
the  last  nails  a  symbol  to  one  sense,  which  was  a  true  sense 
for  a  moment,  but  soon  becomes  old  and  false.  For  all 
symbols  are  fluxional;  all  language  is  vehicular  and  tran 
sitive,  and  is  good,  as  ferries  and  horses  are,  for  conveyance, 
not  as  farms  and  houses  are,  for  homestead.  Mysticism 
consists  in  the  mistake  of  an  acccidental  and  individual  sym 
bol  for  a  universal  one.  The  morning-redness  happens  to 
be  the  favorite  meteor  to  the  eyes  of  Jacob  Behmen,  and 
comes  to  stand  to  him  for  truth  and  faith;  and,  he  believes, 
it  should  stand  for  the  same  realities  to  every  reader.  But 
the  first  reader  prefers  as  naturally  the  symbol  of  a  mother 
and  child,  or  a  gardener  and  his  bulb,  or  a  jeweller  polishing 
a  gem.  Either  of  these,  or  of  a  myriad  more,  are  equally 
good  to  the  person  to  whom  they  are  significant.  Only  they 
must  be  held  lightly,  and  be  very  willingly  translated  into 
the  equivalent  terms  which  others  use.  And  the  mystic  must 
be  steadily  told, — All  that  you  say  is  just  as  true  without  the 
tedious  use  of  that  symbol  as  with  it.  Let  us  have  a  little 
algebra,  instead  of  this  trite  rhetoric, — universal  signs,  in 
stead  of  these  village  symbols, — and  we  shall  both  be  gain-  > 
ers.  The  history  of  hierarchies  seems  to  show,  that  all 
religious  error  consisted  in  making  the  symbol  too  stark  and 
solid,  and,  at  last,  nothing  but  an  excess  of  the  organ  of 
language.  1 

Swedenborg,  of  all  men  in  the  recent  ages,  stands 
eminently  for  the  translator  of  nature  into  thought.  I  do 
not  know  the  man  in  history  to  whom  things  stood  so  uni-  / 
formly  for  words.  Before  him  the  metamorphosis  contin 
ually  plays.  Every  thing  on  which  his  eye  rests,  obeys  the 
impulses  of  moral  nature.  The  figs  become  grapes  whilst 
he  eats  them.  When  some  of  his  angels  affirmed  a  truth,  the 


THE   POET  421 

laurel  twig 'which  they  held  blossomed  in  their  hands.  The 
noise  which  at  a  distance,  appeared  like  gnashing  and  thump 
ing,  on  coming  nearer  was  found  to  be  the  voice  of  disputants. 
The  men,  in  one  of  his  visions,  seen  in  heavenly  light,  ap 
peared  like  dragons,  and  seemed  in  darkness;  but  to  each 
other  they  appeared  as  men,  and,  when  the  light  from  heaven 
shone  into  their  cabin,  they  complained  of  the  darkness, 
and  were  compelled  to  shut  the  window  that  they  might 
see.  >-  ' 

There  was  this  perception  in  him,  which  makes  the  poet 
'or  seer,  an  object  of  awe  and  terror,  namely,  that  the  same 
man,  or  society  of  men,  may  wear  one  aspect  to  themselves 
and  their  companions,  and  a  different  aspect  to  higher  in 
telligences.  Certain  priests,  whom  he  describes  as  convers 
ing  very  learnedly  together,  appeared  to  the  children,  who 
were  at  some  distance,  like  dead  horses;  and  many  the  like 
misappearances.  And  instantly  the  mind  inquires,  whether 
these  fishes  under  the  bridge,  yonder  oxen  in  the  pasture, 
those  dogs  in  the  yard,  are  immutably  fishes,  oxen,  and  dogs, 
or  only  so  appear  to  me,  and  perchance  to  themselves  appear 
upright  men;  and  whether  I  appear  as  a  man  to  all  eyes. 
The  Brahmins  and  Pythagoras  propounded  the  same  question, 
and  if  any  poet  has  witnessed  the  transformation,  he  doubt 
less  found  it  in  harmony  with  various  experiences.  We 
have  all  seen  changes  as  considerable  in  wheat  and  cater 
pillars.  He  is  the  poet,  and  shall  draw  us  with  love  and 
terror,  who  sees,  through  the  flowing  vest,  the  firm  nature, 
and  can  declare  it. 

I  look  in  vain  for  the  poet  whom  I  describe.  We  do  not, 
with  sufficient  plainness,  or  sufficient  profoundness,  address 
ourselves  to  life,  nor  dare  we  chaunt  our  own  times  and 
social  circumstance.  If  we  filled  the  day  with  bravery,  we 
should  not  shrink  from  celebrating  it.  Time  and  nature 
yield  us  many  gifts,  but  not  yet  the  timely  man,  the  new 
religion,  the  reconciler,  whom  all  things  await.  Dante's 
praise  is,  that  he  dared  to  write  his  autobiography  in 
colossal  cipher,  or  into  universality.  We  have  yet  had  no 
genius  in  America,  writh  tyrannous  eye,  which  knew  the 
value  of  our  incomparable  materials,  and  saw,  in  the  bar- 


422  THE   POET 

barism  and  materialism  of  the  times,  another  carnival  of  the 
same  gods  whose  picture  it  so  much  admires  in  Homer; 
then  in  the  middle  age;  then  in  Calvinism.  Banks  and 
tariffs,  the  newspaper  and  caucus,  methodism  and  unitarian- 
ism,  are  flat  and  dull  to  dull  people,  but  rest  on  the  same 
foundations  of  wonder  as  the  town  of  Troy  and  the  temple 
of  Delphi  and  are  as  swiftly  passing  away.  Our  logrolling, 
our  stumps  and  their  politics,  our  fisheries,  our  Negroes, 
and  Indians,  our  boats,  and  our  repudiations,  the  wrath  of 
rogues,  and  the  pusillanimity  of  honest  men,  the  northern 
trade,  the  southern  planting,  the  western  clearing,  Oregon 
and  Texas,  are  yet  unsung.  Yet  America  is  a  poem  in  our 
eyes;  its  ample  geography  dazzles  the  imagination,  and  it 
will  not  wait  long  for  metres.  If  I  have  not  found  that  ex 
cellent  combination  of  gifts  in  my  countrymen  which  I 
seek,  neither  could  I  aid  myself  to  fix  the  idea  of  the  poet, 
by  reading  "now  and  then  in  Chalmers's  collection  of  five 
centuries  of  English  poets.  These  are  wits,  more  than  poets, 
though  there  have  been  poets  among  them.  But  when  we 
adhere  to  the  ideal  of  the  poet,  we  have  our  difficulties  even 
with  Milton  and  Homer.  Milton  is  too  literary,  and 
Homer  too  literal  and  historical. 

But  I  am  not  wise  enough  for  a  national  criticism,  and 
must  use  the  old  largeness  a  little  longer,  to  discharge  my 
errand  from  the  muse  to  the  poet  concerning  his  art. 

Art  is  the  path  of  the  creator  to  his  work.  The  paths, 
or  methods,  are  ideal  and  eternal,  though  few  men  ever  see 
them, — not  the  artist  himself,  for  years,  or  for  a  lifetime, 
unless  he  come  into  the  conditions.  The  painter,  the  sculp 
tor,  the  composer,  the  epic  rhapsodist,  the  orator,  all  par 
take  one  desire,  namely,  to  express  themselves  symmetrically, 
and  abundantly,  not  dwarfishly  and  fragmentary.  They 
found  or  put  themselves  in  certain  conditions,  as,  the  painter 
and  sculptor  before  some  impressive  human  figures;  the 
orator,  into  the  assembly  of  the  people;  and  the  others,  in 
such  scenes  as  each  has  found  exciting  to  his  intellect;  and 
each  presently  feels  the  new  desire.  He  hears  a  voice,  he 
sees  a  beckoning.  Then  he  is  apprised,  with  wonder,  what 
herds  of  daemons  hem  him  in.  He  can  no  more  rest;  he 


THE  POET  423 

says,  with  the  old  painter,  "By  God,  it  is  in  me,  and  must 
go  forth  of  me."  He  pursues  a  beauty,  half  seen,  which  flies 
before  him.  The  poet  pours  out  verses  in  every  solitude. 
Most  of  the  things  he  says  are  conventional,  no  doubt;  but 
by  and  by  he  says  something  which  is  original  and  beautiful. 
That  charms  him.  He  would  say  nothing  else  but  such 
things.  In  our  way  of  talking,  we  say,  "That  is  yours,  this 
is  mine;"  but  the  poet  knows  well  that  it  is  not  his;  that  it 
is  as  strange  and  beautiful  to  him  as  to  you;  he  would  fain 
hear  the  like  eloquence  at  length.  Once  having  tasted  this  im 
mortal  ichor,  he  cannot  have  enough  of  it,  and,  as  an  ad 
mirable  creative  power  exists  in  these  intellections,  it  is  of 
the  last  importance  that  these  things  get  spoken.  What  a 
little  of  all  we  know  is  said!  What  drops  of  all  the  sea  of 
our  science  are  baled  up!  and  by  what  accident  it  is  that 
these  are  exposed,  when  so  many  secrets  sleep  in  nature! 
Hence  the  necessity  of  speech  and  song;  hence  these  throbs 
and  heart-beatings  in  the  orator,  at  the  door  of  the  assembly, 
to  the  end,  namely,  that  thought  may  be  ejaculated  as  Logos, 
or  Word. 

Doubt  not,  0  poet,  but  persist.  Say,  "It  is  in  me,  and 
shall  out."  Stand  there,  balked  and  dumb,  stuttering  and 
stammering,  hissed  and  hooted,  stand  and  strive,  until,  at 
last,  rage  draw  out  of  thee  that  dream-power  which  every 
night  shows  thee  is  thine  own; — a  power  transcending  all 
limit  and  privacy,  and  by  virtue  of  which  a  man  is  the 
conductor  of  the  whole  river  of  electricity.  Nothing  walks, 
or  creeps,  or  grows,  or  exists,  which  must  not  in  turn  arise 
and  walk  before  him  as  exponent  of  his  meaning.  Comes 
he  to  that  power,  his  genius  is  no  longer  exhaustible.  All 
the  creatures,  by  pairs  and  by  tribes,  pour  into  his  mind  as 
into  a  Noah's  ark,  to  come  forth  again  to  people  a 
new  world.  This  is  like  the  stock  of  air  for  our  respiration, 
or  for  the  combustion  of  our  fire-place,  not  a  measure  of 
gallons,  but  the  entire  atmosphere  if  wanted.  .And  therefore 
the  rich  poets,  as  Homer,  Chaucer,  Shakspeare,  and  Raphael, 
have  obviously  no  limits  to  their  works,  except  the  limits  of 
their  lifetime,  and  resemble  a  mirror  carried  through  the 
street,  ready  to  render  an  image  of  every  created  thing. 


424  THE  POET 

0  poet !  a  new  nobility  is  conferred  in  groves  and  pastures, 
and  not  in  castles,  or  by  the  sword-blade,  any  longer.  The 
conditions  are  hard,  but  equal.  Thou  shalt  leave  the  world, 
and  know  the  muse  only.  Thou  shalt  not  know  any  longer 
the  time,  customs,  graces,  politics,  or  opinions  of  men,  but 
shalt  take  all  from  the  muse.  For  the  time  of  towns  is 
tolled  from  the  world  by  funeral  chimes,  but  in  nature  the 
universal  hours  are  counted  by  succeeding  tribes  of  animals 
and  plants,  and  by  growth  of  joy  on  joy.  God  wills  also 
that  thou  abdicate  a  manifold  and  duplex  life,  and  that  thou 
be  content  that  others  speak  for  thee.  Others  shall  be  thy 
gentlemen,  and  shall  represent  all  courtesy  and  worldly  life 
for  thee;  others  shall  do  the  great  and  resounding  actions 
also.  Thou  shalt  lie  close  hid  with  nature,  and  canst  not 
be  afforded  to  the  Capitol  or  the  Exchange.  The  world  is 
full  of  renunciations  and  apprenticeships,  and  this  is  thine; 
thou  must  pass  for  a  fool  and  a  churl  for  a  long  season. 
This  is  the  screen  and  sheath  in  which  Pan  has  protected  his 
well-beloved  flower,  and  thou  shalt  be  known  only  to  thine 
own,  and  they  shall  console  thee  with  tenderest  love.  And 
thou  shalt  not  be  able  to  rehearse  the  names  of  thy  friends 
in  thy  verse,  for  an  old  shame  before  the  holy  ideal.  And 
this  is  the  reward:  that  the  ideal  shall  be  real  to  thee,  and 
the  impressions  of  the  actual  world  shall  fall  like  summer 
rain,  copious,  but  not  troublesome,  to  thy  invulnerable 
essence.  Thou  shalt  have  the  whole  land  for  thy  park  and 
manor,  the  sea  for  thy  bath  and  navigation,  without  tax  and 
without  envy;  the  woods  and  the  rivers  thou  shalt  own;  and 
thou  shalt  possess  that  wherein  others  are  only  tenants  and 
boarders.  Thou  true  land-lord!  sea-lord!  air-lord!  Wher 
ever  snow  falls,  or  water  flows,  or  birds  fly,  wherever  day 
and  night  meet  in  twilight,  wherever  the  blue  heaven  is 
hung  by  clouds,  or  sown  with  stars,  wherever  are  forms 
with  transparent  boundaries,  wherever  are  outlets  into 
celestial  space,  wherever  is  danger,  and  awe  and  love,  there 
is  Beauty,  plenteous  as  rain,  shed  for  thee,  and  though  thou 
shonldst  walk  the  world  over,  thou  shalt  not  be  able  to 
find  a  condition  inopportune  or  ignoble. 


XXII 
THE  YOUNG  AMERICAN 

A  Lecture  read  before  thz  Mercantile  Library  Association, 

Boston,  February  7,  1844. 
GENTLEMEN, 

IT  is  remarkable,  that  our  people  have  their  intellectual 
culture  from  one  country,  and  their  duties  from  another. 
This  false  state  of  things  is  newly  in  a  way  to  be  corrected. 
America  is  beginning  to  assert  itself  to  the  senses  and  to  the 
imagination  of  her  children,  and  Europe  is  recpding^n  the 
saTSe  degree.  This  their  reaction  on  education  gives  a  new 
importance  to  the  internal  improvements  and  to  the  politics 
of  the  country.  Who  has  not  been  stimulated  to  reflection 
by  the  facilities  now  in  progress  of  construction  for  trave! 
and  the  transportation  of  goods  in  the  United  States? 

This  rage  for  road  building  is  beneficent  for  America, 
where  vast  distance  is  so  main  a  consideration  in  our  do 
mestic  politics  and  trade,  inasmuch  as  the  great  political 
promise  of  the  invention  is  to  hold  the  Union  staunch,  whose 
days  seemed  already  numbered  by  the  mere  inconvenience 
of  transporting  representatives,  judges,  and  officers  across 
such  tedious  distances  of  land  and  water.  Not  only  is  dis- 
t.fl.nflp  ajimhilated^  but  when,  as  now,  the  locomotive  and  the 
steamboat,  like  enormous  shuttles,  shoot  every  day  across 
flip  thousand  various  threads  of  national  descent  and 
employment,  and  bind  them  fast  in  one  web,  an  hourly  as 
similation  goes  forward,  and  there  is  no  danger  that  local 
peculiarities  and  hostilities  should  be  preserved. 

1.  But  I  hasten  to  speak  of  the  utility  of  these  im 
provements  in  creating  an  American _seatijnent.  An  un 
looked-for  consequence  of  the  railroad,  is  the  increased  ac 
quaintance  it  has  given  the  American  people  with  the 

425 


426  THE  YOUNG  AMERICAN 

boundless  resources  of  their  own  soil.  If  this  invention  has 
reduced  England  to  a  third  of  its  size,  by  bringing  people 
so  much  nearer,  in  this  country  it  has  given  a  new  celerity 
to  time,  or  anticipated  by  fifty  years  the  planting  of  tracts 
of  land,  the  choice  of  water  privileges,  the  working  of  mines, 
and  other  natural  advantages.  Railroad  iron  is  a  magician's 
rod,  in  its  power  to  evoke  the  sleeping  energies  of  land  and 
water. 

The  railroad  is  but  one  arrow  in  our  quiver,  though  it 
has  great  value  as  a  sort  of  yard-stick,  and  surveyor's  line. 
The  bountiful  continent  is  ours,  state  on  state,  and  territory 
on  territory,  to  the  waves  of  the  Pacific  sea; 

"Our  garden  is  the  immeasurable  earth, 
The  heaven's  blue  pillars  are  Medea's  house." 

The  task  of  surveying,  planting,  and  building  upon  this 
immense  tract,  requires  an  education  and  a  sentiment  com 
mensurate  thereto.  A  consciousness  of  this  fact  is  beginning 
to  take  the  place  of  the  purely  trading  spirit  and  education 
which  sprang  up  whilst  all  the  population  lived  on  the 
fringe  of  sea-coast.  And  even  on  the  coast,  prudent 
men  have  begun  to  see  that  every  American  should  be 
educated  with  a  view  to  the  values  of  land.  The  arts  of 
engineering  and  of  architecture  are  studied;  scientific  agri 
culture  is  an  object  of  growing  attention;  the  mineral  riches 
are  explored;  limestone,  coal,  slate,  and  iron;  and  the  value 
of  timber-lands  is  enhanced. 

Columbus  alleged  as  a  reason  for  seeking  a  continent  in 
the  West,  that  the  harmony  of  nature  required  a  great  tract 
of  land  in  the  western  hemisphere,  to  balance  the  known 
extent  of  land  in  the  eastern;  and  it  now  appears  that  we 
must  estimate  the  native  values  of  this  broad  region  to  re 
dress  the  balance  of  our  own  judgments,  and  appreciate  the 
advantages  opened  to  the  human  race  in  this  country,  which 
is  our  fortunate  home.  Th^  jpid  is  the  appointed  remedy 
-  -  *or  whatever  is  false  and  fantastic  in  our  culture.  The  con 
tinent  we  inhabit  is  to"  be  pnysic  and  lood  lor  our  mind,  as 
well  as  our  body.  The  land,tjwthjts_trji^^ 
influences,  is  to  repair  the  errors  of  "a~scEoIastic sand  tra- 

—     ,  - 


THE  YOUNG   AMERICAN  427 

ditional  education,  and  bring  us  into  just  relations  with  men 
"ancT  things. "~ 

The  habit  of  living  in  the  presence  of  these  invitations  of 
natural  wealth  is  not  inoperative;  and  this  habit,  combined 
with  the  moral  sentiment  which,  in  the  recent  years,  has  in 
terrogated  every  institution,  usage,  and  law,  has,  naturally, 
given  a  strong  direction  to  the  wishes  and  aims  of  active 
young  men  to  withdraw  from  cities,  and  cultivate  the  soil. 
This  inclination  has  appeared  in  the  most  unlooked  for 
quarters,  in  men  supposed  to  be  absorbed  in  business,  and 
in  those  connected  with  the  liberal  professions.  And,  since 
the  walks  of  trade  were  crowded,  whilst  that  of  agriculture 
cannot  easily  be,  inasmuch  as  the  farmer  who  is  not  wanted 
by  others  can  yet  grow  his  own  bread,  whilst  the  manu 
facturer  or  the  trader,  who  is  not  wanted,  cannot, — this 
seemed  a  happy  tendency.  For,  beside  all  the  moral  benefit 
which  we  may  expect  from  the  farmer's  profession,  when  a 
man  enters  it  considerately,  this  promised  the  conquering 
of  the  soil,  plenty,  and  beyond  this,  the  adorning  of  the 
country  with  every  advantage  and  ornament  which  labor, 
ingenuity,  and  affection  for  a  man's  home,  could  suggest. 

Meantime,  with  cheap  land,  and  the  pacific  disposition  of 
the  people,  every  thing  invites  to  the  arts  of  agriculture,  of 
gardening,  and  domestic  architecture.  Public  gardens,  on 
the  scale  of  such  plantations  in  Europe  and  Asia,  are  now  un 
known  to  us.  There  is  no  feature  of  the  old  countries  that 
strikes  an  American  with  more  agreeable  surprise  than  the 
beautiful  gardens  of  Europe;  such  as  the  Boboli  in  Florence, 
the  Villa  Borghese  in  Rome,  the  Villa  d'Este  in  Tivoli,  the 
gardens  at  Munich,  and  at  Frankfort  on  the  Main:  works 
easily  imitated  here,  and  which  might  well  make  the  land 
dear  to  the  citizen,  and  inflame  patriotism.  It  is  the  fine 
art  which  is  left  for  us,  now  that  sculpture,  painting,  and 
religious  and  civil  architecture  have  become  effete,  and  have 
passed  into  second  childhood.  We  have  twenty  degrees  of 
latitude  wherein  to  choose  a  seat,  and  the  new  modes  of 
travelling  enlarge  the  opportunity  of  selection,  by  making 
it  easy  to  cultivate  very  distant  tracts,  and  yet  remain  in 
strict  intercourse  with  the  centers  of  trade  and  population. 


428  THE  YOUNG  AMERICAN 

And  the  whole  force  of  all  the  arts  goes  to  facilitate  the 
decoration  of  lands  and  dwellings.  A  garden  has  this  advan 
tage,  that  it  makes  it  indifferent  where  you  live.  A  well- 
laid  garden  makes  the  face  of  the  country  of  no  account; 
let  that  be  low  or  high,  grand  or  mean,  you  have  made  a 
beautiful  abode  worthy  of  man.  If  the  landscape  is  pleasing, 
the  garden  shows  it,— if  tame,  it  excludes  it.  A  little  grove, 
which  any  farmer  can  find,  or  cause  to  grow  near  his  house' 
will,  in  a  few  years,  make  cataracts  and  chains  of  moun 
tains  quite  unnecessary  to  his  scenery;  and  he  is  so  contented 
with  his  alleys,  woodlands,  orchards,  and  river,  that  Niagara, 
and  the  Notch  of  the  White  Hills,  and  Nantasket  Beach, 
are  superfluities.  And  yet  the  selection  of  a  fit  house-lot 
has  the  same  advantage  over  an  indifferent  one,  as  the 
selection  to  a  given  employment  of  a  man  who  has  a  genius 
for  that  work.  In  the  last  case,  the  culture  of  years  will 
never  make  the  most  painstaking  apprentice  his  equal;  no 
more  will  gardening  give  the  advantage  of  a  happy  site  to 
a  house  in  a  hole  or  on  a  pinnacle.  In  America,  we  have 
hitherto  little  to  boast  in  this  kind.  The  cities  drain  the 
country  of  the  best  part  of  its  population:  the  flower  of  the 
\  .  youth,  of  both  sexes,  goes  into  the  towns,  and  the  country 
i  is  cultivated  by  a  so  much  inferior  class.  The  land, — travel 
fa  whole  day  together, — looks  poverty-stricken,  and  the 
buildings  plain  and  poor.  In  Europe,  where  society  has  an 
aristocratic  structure,  the  land  is  full  of  men  of  the  best 
stock,  and  the  best  culture,  whose  interest  and  pride  it  is  to 
remain  half  the  year  on  their  estates,  and  to  fill  them  with 
every  convenience  and  ornament.  Of  course,  these  make 
model  farms,  and  model  architecture,  and  are  a  constant 
education  to  the  eye  of  the  surrounding  population.  What 
ever  events  in  progress  shall  go  to  disgust  men  with  cities, 
'  and  infuse  into  them  the  passion  for  country  life  and  country 
pleasures,  will  render  a  service  to  the  whole  face  of  this 
continent,  and  will  further  the  most  poetic  of  all  the  oc 
cupations  of  real  life,  the  bringing  out  by  art  the  native 
but  hidden  graces  of  the  landscape. 

I  look  on  such  improvements,  also,  as  directly  tending  to 
endear ^the  land  to  the  inhabitant.     Any  relation  to  the 


THE   YOUNG   AMERICAN  429 

Jand,  the  habit  of  tilling  it,  or  mining  it,  or  even  hunting 
on  it,  generates-JJa&-feeling  of  patriotism.  He  who  keeps 
shop  on  it,  or  he  who  merely  uses  it  as  a  support  to  his 
desk  and  ledger,  or  to  his  manufactory,  values  it  less.  The 
vast  majority  of  the  people  of  this  country  live  by  the  land, 
and  carry  its  quality  in  their  manners  and  opinions.  We 
in  the  Atkmtic^j^.s,J^4H}sj1^^  been  commercial, 

andjbave,  as  I  said,  imbibed  easily  an__European  cul 
ture.  Luckily  for  us,  now  that  steam  has  narrowed  the 
Atlantic  to  a  strait,  the  nervous,  rocky  West  is  intruding  a 
new  and  continental  element  into  the  national  mind,  and  we 
shall  yet  have  an  American  genius.  How  much  better  when 
the  whole  land  is  a  garden,  and  the  people  have  grown  up 
in  the  bowers  of  a  paradise.  Without  looking,  then,  to  those 
extraordinary  social  influences  which  are  now  acting  in  pre 
cisely  this  direction,  but  only  at  what  is  inevitably  doing 
around  us,  I  think  we  must  regard  the  land  as  a  command 
ing  and  increasing  power  on  the  citizen,  the  sanative  and 
Americanizing  influence,  which  promises  to  disclose  new  vir 
tues  for  ages  to  come. 

2.  In  the  second  place,  the  uprise  and  culmination  of  the 
new  and  anti-feudal  power  of  Commerce,  is  the  political 
fact  of  most  significance  to  the  American  at  this  hour. 

We  cannot  look  on  the  freedom  of  this  country,  in  con 
nection  with  its  yollth7~without  a  presentiment  that  here 
shall  laws  and  institutions  exist  on  some  scale  of  proportion 
to  the  majesty  of  nature.  To  men  legislating  for  the  area 
betwixt  the  two  oceans,  betwixt  the  snows  and  the  tropics, 
somewhat  of  the  gravity  of  nature  will  infuse  itself  into 
the  code.  A  heterogeneous  population  crowding  on  all  ships 
from  all  corners 'of  the  world  to  the  great  gates  of  North 
America,  namely,  Boston,  New  York,  and  New  Orleans, 
and  thence  proceeding  inward  to  the  prairie  and  the  moun 
tains,  and  quickly  contributing  their  private  thought  to 
the  public  opinion,  their  toll  to  the  treasury,  and  their  vote 
to  the  election,  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  the  legislation  of 
this  country  should  become  more  catholic  and  cosmopolitan 
than  that  of  any  other.  It  seens  so  easy  for  America  to 
inspire  and  express  the  most  expansive  and  humane  spirit; 


430  THE   YOUNG  AMERICAN 

new-born,  free,  healthful,  strong,  the  land  of  the  laborer, 
of  the  democrat,  of  the  philanthropist,  of  the  believer,  of 
the  saint,  she  should  speak  for  the  human  race.  It  is  the 
country  of  the  Future.  From  Washington,  proverbially 
"the  city  of  magnificent  distances,"  through  all  its  cities, 
states,  and  territories,  it  is  a  country  of  beginnings,  of  proj 
ects,  of  designs,  and  expectations. 

Gentlemen,  there  is  a  sublime  and  friendly  Destin^__by 
which  the  human  race  is  guided, — the  race  nevefTTymg,  the 
individual  never  spared, — to  results  affecting  masses  and 
ages.  Men  are  narrow  and  selfish,  but  the  Genius  or  Des 
tiny  is  not  narrow,  b%ttj^eneficent .  It  is  not  discovered  in 
their  calculated  and  voluntary^abtivity,  but  in  what  be 
falls,  with  or  without  their  design.  Only  what  is  inevitable 
interests  us,  and  it  turns  out  that  love  and  good  are  inevit 
able,  and  in  the  course  of  things.  That  Genius  has  infused 
•— itself  into  nature.  It  indicates  itself  by  a  small  excess  of 
good,  a  small  balance  in  brute  facts  always  favorable  to  the 
side  of  reason.  All  the  facts  in  any  part  of  nature  shall  be 
tabulated,  and  the  results  shall  indicate  the  same  security 
and  benefit;  so  slight  as  to  be  hardly  observable,  and  yet  it 
is  there.  The  sphere  is  flattened  at  the  poles,  and  swelled 
at  the  equator;  a  form  flowing  necessarily  from  the  fluid 
te^yet  the  form,  the  mathematician  assures  us,  required 
to  prevent  the  protuberances  of  the  continent,  or  even  of 
lesser  mountains  cast  up  at  any  time  by  earthquakes,  from 
continually  deranging  the  axis  of  the  earth.  J  The  Census 
of  the  population  is  found  to  keep  an  invariable  equality 
in  the  sexes,  with  a  trifling  predominance  in  favor  of  the 
male,  as  if  to  counterbalance  the  necessarily  increased  ex 
posure  of  male  life  in  war,  navigation,  and  other  accidents.) 
Remark  the  unceasing  effort  throughout  nature  at  somewhar 
better  than  the  actual  creatures:  amelioration  in  nature, 
which  alone  permits  and  authorizes  amelioration  in  mankind. 
The  population  of  the  world  is  a  conditional  population; 
these  are  not  the  best,  but  the  best  that  could  live  in  the 
existing  state  of  soils,  gases,  animals,  and  morals:  the  best 
that  could  yet  live;  there  shall  be  a  better,  please  God.  This 
Genius,  or  Destiny,  is  of  the  sternest  administration,  though 


THE  YOUNG  AMERICAN  431 

rumors  exist  of  its  secret  tenderness.  It  may  be  styled  a 
cruel  kindness,  serving  the  whole  even  to  the  ruin  of  the 
member;  a  terrible  communist,  reserving  all  profits  to  the 
community,  without  dividend  to  individuals.  Its  law 
is,  you  shall  have  everything  as  a  member,  nothing  to  your 
self.  For  Nature  is  the  noblest  engineer,  yet  uses  a  grinding 
economy,  working  up  all  that  is  wasted  to-day  into  to 
morrow's  creation; — not  a  superfluous  grain  of  sand,  for  all 
the  ostentation  she  makes  of  expense  and  public  works.  It 
is  because  Nature  thus  saves  and  uses,  laboring  for  the 
general,  that  we  poor  particulars  are  so  crushed  and  strait 
ened,  and  find  it  so  hard  to  live.  She  flung  us  out  in  her 
plenty,  but  we  cannot  shed  a  hair,  or  a  paring  of  a  nail,  but 
instantly  she  snatches  at  the  shred,  and  appropriates  it  to 
the  general  stock.  Our  condition  is  like  that  of  the  poor 
wolves:  if  one  of  the  flock  wound  himself,  or  so  much  as 
limp,  the  rest  eat  him  up  incontinently. 

That  serene  Power  interposes  the  check  upon  the 
caprices  and  officiousness  of  our  wills.  Its  charity  is  not  our 
charity.  One  of  its  agents  is  our  will,  but  that  which  ex 
presses  itself  in  our  will,  is  stronger  than  our  will.  We  are 
very  forward  to  help  it,  but  it  will  not  be  accelerated.  It 
resists  our  meddling,  eleemosynary  contrivances.  We  de 
vise  sumptuary  and  relief  laws,  but  the  principle  of  popu 
lation  is  always  reducing  wages  to  the  lowest  pittance  on 
which  human  life  can  be  sustained.  We  legislate  against 
forestalling  and  monopoly;  we  would  have  a  common 
granary  for  the  poor;  but  the  selfishness  which  hoards  the 
corn  for  high  prices,  is  the  preventive  of  famine;  and  the  law 
of  self-preservation  is  surer  policy  than  any  legislation  can 
be.  We  concoct  eleemosynary  systems,  and  it  turns  out  that 
our  charity  increases  pauperism.  We  inflate  our  paper 
currency,  we  repair  commerce  with  unlimited  credit,  and  are 
presently  visited  with  unlimited  bankruptcy. 

It  is  easy  to  see  that  the  existing  generation  are  con 
spiring  with  a  beneficence,  which,  in  its  working  for  coming 
generations,  sacrifices  the  passing  one,  which  infatuates  the 
most  selfish  men  to  act  against  their  private  interest  for 
the  public  welfare.  We  build  railroads,  we  know  not  for 


432  THE   YOUNG   AMERICAN 

what  or  for  whom:  but  one  thing  is  certain,  that  we  who 
build  will  receive  the  very  smallest  share  of  benefit.  Bene 
fits  will  accrue;  they  are  essential  to  the  country,  but  that 
will  be  felt  not  until  we  are  no  longer  countrymen.  We 
do  the  like  in  all  matters: — 

"Man's  heart  the  Almighty  to  the  Future  set 
By  secret  and  inviolable  springs." 

We  plant  trees,  we  build  stone  houses,  we  redeem  the  waste, 
we  make  prospective  laws,  we  found  colleges  and  hos 
pitals  for  remote  generations.  We  should  be  mortified  to 
learn  that  the  little  benefit  we  chanced  in  our  own  persons 
to  receive  was  the  utmost  they  would  yield. 

^Tlie  history  of  commerce,  is  the  record  ofthis  beneficent 
_jt£iidency.  The  patriarchal  form  of  government  readily 
becomes  despotic,  as  each  person  may  see  in  his  own  family. 
Fathers  wish  tobe  the  fathers  of  the  minds  of  their  children, 
and  behold  with  impatience  a  new  character  and  way  of 
thinking,  presuming  to  show  itself  in  their  own  son  or 
daughter.  This  feeling,  which  all  their  love  and  pride  in 
the  powers  of  their  children  cannot  subdue,  becomes  petu 
lance  and  tyranny  when  the  head  of  the  clan,  the  emperor 
of  an  empire,  deals  with  the  same  difference  of  opinion  in 
his  subjects.  Difference  of  opinion  is  the  one  crime  which 
kings  never  forgive.  An  empire  is  an  immense  egotism. 
"I  am  the  State,"  said  the  French  Louis.  When  a  French 
ambassador  mentioned  to  Paul  of  Russia,  that  a  man  of 
consequence  in  St.  Petersburg  was  interesting  himself  in  some 
matter,  the  Czar  interrupted  him — "There  is  no  man  of 
consequence  in  this  empire,  but  he  with  whom  I  am  actually 
speaking;  and  so  long  only  as  I  am  speaking  to  him,  is  he 
of  any  consequence."  And  Nicholas,  the  present  emperor, 
is  reported  to  have  said  to  his  council,  "The  age  is  em 
barrassed  with  new  opinions;  rely  on  me,  gentlemen,  I  shall 
oppose  an  iron  will  to  the  progress  of  liberal  opinions." 

It  is  easy  to  see  that  this  patriarchal  or  family  manage 
ment  gets  to  be  rather  troublesome  to  all  but  the  papa;  the 
sceptre  comes  to  be  a  crowbar.  And  this  unpleasant  ego 
tism,  Feudalism  opposes,  and  finally  destroys.  The  king  is 


THE  YOUNG   AMERICAN  433 

compelled  to  call  in  the  aid  of  his  brothers  and  cousins;  and 
remote  relations,  to  help  him  keep  his  overgrown  house  in 
order;  and  this  club  of  noblemen  always  comes  at  last  to  have 
a  will  of  their  own;  they  combine  to  brave  the  sovereign, 
and  call  in  the  aid  of  the  people.  Each  chief  attaches  as 
many  followers  as  he  can,  by  kindness,  maintenance,  and 
gifts;  and  as  long  as  war  lasts,  the  nobles,  who  must  be 
soldiers,  rule  very  well.  But  when  peace  comes,  the  nobles 
prove  very  whimsical  and  uncomfortable  masters;  their 
frolics  turn  out  to  be  insulting  and  degrading  to  the  com 
moner.  Feudahsm-^eAV--tQ__be  a  bandit  and  brigand. 

Meantime  Trail&-4iad  begun  to  appear:  Trade,  a  plant 
which  grows  wherever  there  is  peace,  as  soon  as  there  is 
peace,  and  as  long  as  there  is  peace.  The  luxury  and  neces 
sity  of  the  noble  fostered  it.  And  as  quickly  as  men  go  to 
foreign  parts,  in  ships  or  caravans,  a  new  order  of  things 
springs  up;  new  command  takes  place,  new  servants  and 
new  masters.  Their  information,  their  wealth,  the  corre 
spondence,  have  made  them  quite  other  men  than  left  their 
native  shore.  They  are  nobles  now,  and  by  another  patent 
than  the  king's.  Fe^dajisjrjJiaiLJieea^o^)d,  had  broken  the 
power  of  the  kings,  and  had  some  good  traits  of  its  own;  but 
it  had  grown  mischievous,  it  was  time  for  it  to  die,  and,  as 
they  say  of  dying  people,  all  its  faults  came  out.  Trade. 
was  the  strong  man  that  broke  it  down,  and  raised  a  new  and 
unknown  power  in  its  place.  It  is  a  new  agent  in  the  world, 
and  one  of  great  function ;  jt  is  a  very  intfi)W.tiifl.1  fnrnp  ^  This 
displaces  physical  strength,  and  instals  computation,  com 
bination,  information,  science,  in  its  room.  IF  calls  out  all 
force  of  a  certain  kind"  that  slumbered  in  the  former  dy 
nasties.  It  is  now  in  the  midst  of  its  career.  Feudalism  is 
iot  ended  yet.  Our  governments  still  partake  largely  of 
that  element.  Trade  goes  to  make  the  governments  in 
significant,  and  to  bring  every  kind  of  faculty  of  every  in 
dividual  that  can  in  any  manner  serve  any  person,  on  sale. 
stead  of  a  hugeTArmy  and  iNavy,  and  Executive  t)epart- 
ments,  it  converts  Government  into  an  Intelligence-office, 
where  every  man  may  find  what  he  wishs  to  buy,  and  ex 
pose  what  he  has  to  sell,  not  only  produce  and  manufactures, 


434  THE  YOUNG  AMERICAN 

ibut  art,  skill,  and  intellectual  and  moral  values.    This  is 


jthe  good  and  this  the  evil  of  trade,  that  it  would  put  every 
'thing  into  market,  talent,  beauty,  virtue,  and  man  himself. 

By  this  means,  however,  it  has  done  its  work.  It  has  its 
faults,  and  will  come  to  an  end,  as  the  others  do.  The 
philosopher  and  lover  of  man  have  much  harm  to  say  of 
trade;  but  the  historian  will  see  that  trade  was  the  prin 
ciple  of  Jjibertv;  that  trade  planted  America  and  destroyed 
Eeudajism;  that  it  makes  ^^eac^andkeeps, peace,  and  it 
will  abolish  sla^vejy.  We  complain  of Tts  oppression  of  the 
poor,  and  of  its  building  up  a  new  aristocracy  on  the  ruins 
of  the  aristocracy  it  destroyed.  But  the  aristocracy  of 
trade  has  no  permanence,  is  not  entailed,  was  the  result  of 
toil  and  talent,  the  result  of  merit  of  some  kind,  and  is 
continually  falling,  like  the  waves  of  the  sea,  before  new 
claims  of  the  same  sort.  Trade  is  an  instrument  in  the 
hands  of  that  friendly  Power  which  works  for  us  in  our  own 
despite.  We  design  it  thus  and  thus;  it  turns  out  otherwise 
and  far  better.  TLJg-bpnpfjoprit  tftpdpngy,  omnipotent  with 
out  violence,  exists  and  works.  Every  line  of  history  in 
spires  a  confidence  that  we  shall  not  go  far  wrong;  that 
things  mend.  That  is  the  moral  of  all  we  learn,  that  it 
warrants  Hope,  the  prolific  mother  of  reforms.  Our  part 
is  plainly  not  to  throw  ourselves  across  the  track,  to  block 
improvement,  and  sit  till  we  are  stone,  but  to  watch 
the  uprise  of  successive  mornings,  and  to  conspire  with  the 
new  works  of  new  days.  Government  has  been  a  fossil;  it 
should  be  a  plant.  I  conceive  that  the  office  of  statute  law 
should  be  to  express,  and  not  to  impede  the  mind  of  man 
kind.  New  thoughts,  new  things.  Trade  was  one  instru 
ment,  but  Trade  is  also  but  for  a  time,  and  mustjive..^ay 
to  somewhat,  broader  and  better,  whose  signs^are^already 
dawning  in  the  skyv 

3.  I  pass  to  speak  of  the  signs  of  that  which  is  the  sequel 
of  trade. 

In  consequence  of  the  revolution  in  the  state  of  society 
wrought  by  trade,  Government  in  our  times  is  beginning  to 
wear  a  clumsy  and  cumbrous  appearance.  We  have  already 
seen  our  way  to  shorter  methods.  The  time  is  full  of  good 


THE  YOUNG  AMERICAN  435 

* 

signs.  Some  of  them  shall  ripen  to  fruit.  All  this  bene 
ficent  socialism  is  a  friendly  omen,  and  the  swelling  cry  of 
voices  for  the  education  of  the  people,  indicates  that  Govern 
ment  has  other  offices  than  those  of  banker  and  executioner. 
Witness  the  new  movements  in  the  civilized  world,  the  Com 
munism  of  France,  Germany,  and  Switzerland;  the  Trades' 
Unions;  the  English  League  against  the  Corn  Laws;  and  the 
whole  Industrial  Statistics,  so  called.  In  Paris,  the  blouse, 
the  badge  of  the  operative,  has  begun  to  make  its  appearance 
in  the  saloons.  Witness,  too,  the  spectacle  of  three  Com 
munities  which  have  within  a  very  short  time  sprung  up 
within  this  Commonwealth,  besides  several  others  un 
dertaken  by  citizens  of  Massachusetts  within  the  territory 
of  other  States.  These  proceeded  from  a  variety  of  motives, 
from  an  impatience  of  many  usages  in  common  life,  from  a 
wish  for  greater  freedom  than  the  manners  and  opinions  of 
society  permitted,  but  in  great  part  from  a  feeling  that  the 
true  offices  of  the  State,  the  State  had  let  fall  to  the  ground; 
that  in  the  scramble  of  parties  for  the  public  purse,  the  main 
duties  of  government  were  omitted,— the  duty  to  instruct  the 
ignorant,  to  supply  the  poor  with  work  and  with  good 
guidance.  These  communists  preferred  the  agricultural 
life  as  the  most  favorable  condition  for  human  culture;  but 
they  thought  that  the  farm,  as  we  manage  it,  did  not  satisfy 
the  right  ambition  of  man.  The  farmer,  after  sacrificing 
pleasure,  taste,  freedom,  thought,  love,  to  his  work,  turns 
out  often  a  bankrupt,  like  the  merchant.  This  result  might 
well  seem  astounding.  All  this  drudgery,  from  cockcrowing 
to  starlight,  for  all  these  years,  to  end  in  mortgages  and  the 
auctioneer's  flag,  and  removing  from  bad  to  worse.  It  is 
time  to  have  the  thing  looked  into,  and  with  a  sifting  criti 
cism  ascertain  who  is  the  fool.  It  seemed  a  great  deal  worse, 
because  the  farmer  is  living  in  the  same  town  with  men  who 
pretend  to  know  exactly  what  he  wants.  On  one  side,  is 
agricultural  chemistry,  coolly  exposing  the  nonsense  of  our 
spendthrift  agriculture  and  ruinous  expense  of  manures, 
and  offering,  by  means  of  a  teaspoonful  of  artificial  guano, 
to  turn  a  sandbank  into  corn;  and,  on  the  other,  the  farm 
er,  not  only  eager  for  the  information,  but  with  bad  crops 


436  THE  YOUNG  AMERICAN 

and  in  debt  and  bankruptcy,  for  want  of  it.  Here,  are  Et- 
zlers  and  mechanical  projectors,  who,  with  the  Fourierists, 
undoubtingly  affirm  that  the  smallest  union  would  make 
every  man  rich; — and,  on  the  other  side,  a  multitude  of 
poor  meri'lmd  women  seeking  work,  and  who  cannot  find 
enough  to  pay  their  board.  The  science  is  confident,  and 
surely  the  poverty  is  real.  If  any  means  could  be  found  to 
i bring  these  two  together!  \^ 

This  was  one  design  of  the  projectors  of  the  Associations 
which  are  now  making  their  first  feeble  experiments.  They 
were  founded  in  love,  and  in  labor.  They  proposed,  as  you 
know,  that  all  men  should  take  a  part  in  the  manual  toil,  and 
proposed  to  amend  the  condition  of  men,  by  substi 
tuting  harmonious  for  hostile  industry.  It  was  a  noble 
thought  of  Fourier,  which  gives  a  favorable  idea  of  his 
system,  to  distinguish  in  his  Phalanx  a  class  as  the  Sacred 
Band,  by  whom,  whatever  duties  were  disagreeable,  and 
likely  to  be  omitted,  were  to  be  assumed. 

At  least,  an  economical  success  seemed  certain  for  the 
enterprise,  and  that  agricultural  association  must,  sooner  or 
later,  fix  the  price  of  bread,  and  drive  single  farmers  into 
association,  in  self-defence;  as  the  great  commercial  and 
manufacturing  companies  had  already  done.  The  Commu 
nity  is  only  the  continuation  of  the  same  movement  which 
made  the  joint-stock  companies  for  manufactures,  mining, 
insurance,  banking,  and  so  forth.  It  has  turned  out  cheaper 
to  make  calico  by  companies;  and  it  is  proposed  to  plant 
corn,  and  to  bake  bread  by  companies. 

Undoubtedly,  abundant  mistakes  will  be  made  by  these 
first  adventurers,  which  will  draw  ridicule  on  their  schemes. 
I  think,  for  example,  that  they  exaggerate  the  importance 
I  of  a  favorite  project  of  theirs,  that  of  paying  talent  and 
labor  at  one  rate,  paying  all  sorts  of  service  at  one  rate,  say 
ten  cents  the" 'hour.  They  have  paid  it  so;  but  not  an  in 
stant  would  a  dime  remain  a  dime.  In  one  hand  it  became 
an  eagle  as  it  fell,  and  in  another  hand  a  copper  cent.  For 
the  whole  value  of  the  dime  is  in  knowing  what  to  do  with 
it.  One  man  buys  with  it  a  land-title  of  an  Indian,  and 
makes  his  posterity  princes;  or  buys  corn  enough  to  feed 


THE  YOUNG  AMERICAN  437 

the  world;  or  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  or  a  painter's  brush,  by 
which  he  can  communicate  himself  to  the  human  race  as  if 
he  were  fire;  and  the  other  buys  barley  candy.  Money  is 
of  no  value;  it  cannot  spend  itself.  All  depends  on  the  skill 
of  the  spender.  Whether,  too,  the  objection  almost  uni 
versally  felt  by  such  women  in  the  community  as  were 
mothers,  to  an  associate  life,  to  a  common  table,  and  a  com 
mon  nursery,  &c.,  setting  a  higher  value  on  the  private 
family  with  poverty,  than  on  an  association  with  wealth,  will 
not  prove  insuperable,  remains  to  be  determined. 

But  the  Communities  aimed  at  a  higher  success  in  se 
curing  to  all  their  members  an  equal  and  thorough  education. 
And  on  the  whole,  one  may  say,  that  aims  so  generous,  and 
so  forced  on  them  by  the  times,  will  not  be  relinquished, 
even  if  these  attempts  fail,  but  will  be  prosecuted  until  they 
succeed. 

This  is  the  value  of  the  Communities;  not  what  they  have 
done,  but  the  revolution  which  they  indicate  as  on  the  way. 
Yes,  Government  must  educate  the  poor  man.  Look  across 
the  country  from  any  hillside  around  us,  and  the  landscape 
seems  to  crave  Government.  The  actual  differences  of  men 
must  be  acknowledged,  and  met  with  love  and  wisdom. 
These  rising  grounds  which  command  the  champaign  below, 
seem  to  ask  for  lords,  true  lords,  land-lords,  who  understand 
the  land  and  its  uses,  and  the  applicabilities  of  men,  and 
whose  government  would  be  what  it  should,  namely,  medi 
ation  between  want  and  supply.  How  gladly  would  each 
citizen  pay  a  commission  for  the  support  and  continuation 
of  good  guidance.  None  should  be  a  governor  who  has  not 
a  talent  for  governing.  Now  many  people  have  a  native 
skill  for  carving  out  business  for  many  hands;  a  genius  for 
the  disposition  of  affairs;  and  are  never  happier  than  when 
difficult  practical  questions,  which  embarrass  other  men,  are 
to  be  solved.  All  lies  in  light  before  them;  they  are  in  their 
element.  Could  any  means  be  contrived  to  appoint  only 
these!  There  really  seems  a  progress  towards  such  a  state 
of  things,  in  which  this  work  shall  be  done  by  these  natural 
workmen;  and  this,  not  certainly  through  any  increased  dis 
cretion  shown  by  the  citizens  at  elections,  but  by  the  gradual 


438  THE   YOUNG  AMERICAN 

contempt  into  which  official  government  falls,  and  the  in 
creasing  disposition  of  private  adventurers  to  assume  its 
fallen  functions.  Thus  the  costly  Post  Office  is  likely  to  go 
into  disuse  before  the  private  transportation-shop  of  Harn- 
den  and  his  competitors.  The  currency  threatens  to  fall 
entirely  into  private  hands.  Justice  is  continually  ad 
ministered  more  and  more  by  private  reference,  and  not  by 
litigation.  We  have  feudal  governments  in  a  commercial 
age.  It  would  be  but  an  easy  extension  of  our  commercial 
system,  to  pay  a  private  emperor  a  fee  for  services,  as  we 
pay  an  architect,  an  engineer,  or  a  lawyer.  If  any  man  has  a 
talent  for  righting  wrong,  for  administering  difficult  affairs, 
for  counselling  poor  farmers  how  to  turn  their  estates  to 
good  husbandry,  for  combining  a  hundred  enterprises  to  a 
general  benefit,  let  him  in  the  country-town,  or  in  Court- 
street,  put  up  his  sign-board,  Mr.  Smith,  Governor,  Mr. 
Johnson,  Working  king. 

How  can  our  young  men  complain  of  the  poverty  of 
things  in  New  England,  and  not  feel  that  poverty  as  a 
demand  on  their  charity  to  make  New  England  rich? 
Where  is  he  who,  seeing  a  thousand  men  useless  and  un 
happy,  and  making  the  whole  region  forlorn  by  their  in 
action,  and  conscious  himself  of  possessing  the  faculty  they 
want,  does  not  hear  his  call  to  go  and  be  their  king? 

We  must  have  kings,  and  we  must  have  nobles.  Nature 
provides  such  in  every  society, — only  let  us  have  the  real 
instead  of  the  titular.  Let  us  have  our  leading  and  our  in- 
x'<-Nspiration  from  the  best.  In  every  society  some  men  are 
born  to  rule,  and  some  to  advise.  Let  the  powers  be  well 
directed,  directed  by  love,  and  they  would  everywhere  be 
greeted  with  joy  and  honor.  The  chief  is  the  chief  all  the 
world  over,  not  only  his  cap  and  his  plume.  It  is  only  their 
dislike  of  the  pretender,  which  makes  men  sometimes  un 
just  to  the  accomplished  man.  If  society  were  transparent, 
the  noble  would  everywhere  be  gladly  received  and  ac 
credited  and  would  not  be  asked  for  his  day's  work,  but 
would  be  felt  as  benefit,  inasmuch  as  he  was  noble.  That 
were  his  duty  and  stint, — to  keep  himself  pure  and  purify 
ing,  the  leaven  of  his  nation.  I  think  I  see  place  and  duties 


THE  YOUNG  AMERICAN  439 

for  a  nobleman  in  every  society;  but  it  is  not  to  drink  wine 
and  ride  in  a  fine  coach,  but  to  guide  and  adorn  life  for  the 
multitude  by  forethought,  by  elegant  studies,  by  perse 
verance,  self-devotion,  and  the  remembrance  of  the  humble 
old  friend,  by  making  his  life  secretly  beautiful. 

I  call  upon  you,  young  men,  to  obey  your  heart,  and  be 
the  nobility  of  this  land.  In  every  age  of  the  world,  there 
has  been  a  leading  nation,  one  of  a  more  generous  sentiment, 
whose  eminent  citizens  were  willing  to  stand  for  the  interests 
of  general  justice  and  humanity,  at  the  risk  of  being  called, 
by  the  men  of  the  moment,  chimerical  and  fantastic.  Which 
should  be  that  nation  but  these  States?  Which  should  lead 
that  movement,  if  not  New  England  ?  Who  should  lead  the 
leaders,  but  the  Young  American?  The  people,  and  the 
world,  is  now  suffering  from  the  want  of  religion  and  honor 
in  its  public  mind.  In  America,  out  of  doors  all  seems  a 
market;  in  doors,  an  air-tight  stove  of  conventionalism.  ••• 
Every  body  who  comes  into  our  houses  savors  of  these  hab 
its;  the  men,  of  the  market;  the  women,  of  the  custom. 
I  find  no  expression  in  our  state  papers  or  legislative  de 
bate,  in  our  lyceums  or  churches,  specially  in  our  news- 
papers,  of  a  high  national  feeling,  no  lofty  counsels  that- 
right  fully  stir  the  blood.  I  speak  of  those  organs  which  can 
be  presumed  to  speak  a  popular  sense.  They  recommend 
conventional  virtues,  whatever  will  earn  and  preserve  prop 
erty;  always  the  capitalist;  the  college,  the  church,  the 
hospital,  the  theatre,  the  hotel,  the  road,  the  ship,  of  the 
capitalist, — whatever  goes  to  secure,  adorn,  enlarge  these, 
is  good;  what  jeopardizes  any  of  these,  is  damnable.  The* 
"opposition"  papers,  so  called,  are  on  the  same  side.  They 
attack  the  great  capitalist,  but  with  the  aim  to  make  a 
capitalist  of  the  poor  man.  The  opposition  is  against  tho^o 
who  have  money,  from  those  who  wish  to  have  money.  Bnfr'"" 
who  announces  to  us  in  journal,  or  in  pulpit,  or  in  the  street, 
the  secret  of  heroism, 

"Man  alone 
Can  perform  the  impossible"? 

I  shall  not  need  to  go  into  an  enumeration  of  our  national 


440  THE   YOUNG  AMERICAN 

defects  and  vices  which  require  this  Order  of  Censors  in  the 
state.    I  might  not  set  down  our  most  proclaimed  offenses 
as  the  worst.    It  is  not  often  the  worst  trait  that  occasions 
the  loudest  outcry.    Men  . complain,  .of  their  suffering  'and 
_nol.o£  the  crime.    I  fear  little  from  the  bad  effect  of  Re- 
"  pudiation;  I  do  not  fear  that  it  will  spread.   ;  Stealing  is  a 
suicidal  business;  you  cannot  repudiate  but  once.    But  the 
bold  face  and  tardy  repentance  permitted  to  this  local  mis 
chief,  reveal  a  public  mind  so  preoccupied  with  the  love  of 
.  v    gain,  .that  the  common  sentiment  of  indignation  at  fraud 
does  not  act  with  its  natural  force)   The  more  need  of  a 
withdrawal  from  the  crowd,  and  a  resort  to  the  fountain  of 
right,  by  the  brave.     The  timidity  of  our  public  opinion, 
is  our  disease,  or,  shall  I  say,  the  publicness  of  opinion,  the 
absence  of  private  opinion.    Good-nature  is  plentiful,  but 
we  want  justice,  with  heart  of  steel,  to  fight  down  the  proud. 
The  private  mind  has  the  access  to  the  totality  of  goodness 
and  truth,  that  it  may  be  a  balance  to  a  corrupt  society; 
and  to  stand  for  the  private  verdict  against  popular  clamor, 
is  the  office  of  the  noble.    If  a  humane  measure  is  pro 
pounded  in  behalf  of  the  slave,  or  of  the  Irishman,  or  the 
Catholic,  or  for  the  succor  of  the  poor,  that  sentiment,  that 
project,  will  have  the  homage  of  the  hero.    That  is  his  no 
bility,  his  oath  of  knighthood,  to  succor  the  helpless  and 
oppressed;  always  to  throw  himself  on  the  side  of  weakness, 
of  youth,  of  hope,  on  the  liberal,  on  the  expansive  side,  never 
on  the  defensive,  the  conserving,  the  timorous,  the  lock  and 
bolt  system.      More  than  our  good-will  we  may  not  be  able  to 
give.    We  have  our  own  affairs,  our  own  genius,  which  chains 
us  to  our  proper  work.    We  cannot  give  our  life  to  the  cause 
of  the  debtor,  of  the  slave,  or  the  pauper,  as  another  is 
doing;  but  to  one  thing  we  are  bound,  not  to  blaspheme  the 
sentiment  and  the  work  of  that  man,  not  to  throw  stumbling- 
Mocks  in  the  way  of  the  abolitionist,  the  philanthropist,  as 
the  organs  of  influence  and  opinion  are  swift  to  do.    It  is 
for  ns  to  confide  in  the  beneficent  Supreme  Power,  and  not 
to  rely  on  our  money,  and  on  the  state  because  it,  is  the 
guard  of  money.     At  this  moment,  the  terror  of  old  people 
and  of  vicious  people,  is  lest  the  Union  of  these  States  be 


THE   YOUNG  AMERICAN  441 

destroyed :  as  if  the  Union  had  any  other  real  basis  than  the 
good  pleasure  of  a  majority  of  the  citizens  to  be  united. 
But  the  wise  and  just  man  will  always  feel  that  he  stands  on 
his  own  feet;  that  he  imparts  strength  to  the  state,  not  re 
ceives  security  from  it;  and  that  if  all  went  down,  he  and 
such  as  he  would  quite  easily  combine  in  a  new  and  better 
constitution.  Every  great  and  memorable  community  has 
consisted  of  formidable  individuals,  who,  like  the  Roman  or 
the  Spartan,  lent  his  own  spirit  to  the  state  and  made  it 
great.  Yet  only  by  the  supernatural  is  a  man  strong; 
nothing  is  so  weak  as  an  egotist.  Nothing  is  mightier  than 
we,  when  we  are  vehicles  of  a  truth  before  which  the  state 
and  the  individual  are  alike  ephemeral. 

Gentlemen,  the  development  of  our  American  internal 
resources,  the  extension  to  the  utmost  of  the  commercial 
system,  and  the  appearance  of  new  moral  causes  which  are 
to  modify  the  state,  are  giving  an  aspect  of  greatness  to  the 
Future,  which  the  imagination  fears  to  open.  One  thing  is 
plain  for  all  men  of  common  sense  and  common  conscience, 
that  here,  here  in  America,  is  the  home  of  man.  After  all 
the  deductions  which  are  to  be  made  for  our  pitiful  politics, 
which  stake  every  gravest  national  question  on  the  silly  die, 
whether  James  or  whether  Jonathan  shall  sit  in  the  chair 
and  hold  the  purse;  after  all  the  deduction  is  made  for  our 
frivolities  and  insanities,  there  still  remains  an  organic  sim 
plicity  and  liberty,  which,  when  it  loses  its  balance,  re 
dresses  itself  presently,  which  offers  opportunity  to  the 
human  mind  not  known  in  any  other  region. 

It  is  true,  the  public  mind  wants  self-respect.  We  are  full 
of  vanity,  of  which  the  most  signal  proof  is  our  sensitive 
ness  to  foreign  and  especially  English  censure.  One  cause 
of  this  is  our  immense  reading,  and  that  reading  chiefly  con 
fined  to  the  productions  of  the  English  press.  It  is  also  true, 
that,  to  imaginative  persons  in  this  country,  there  is  some 
what  bare  and  bald  in  our  short  history,  and  unsettled 
wilderness.  They  ask,  who  would  live  in  a  new  country,  that 
can  live  in  an  old  ?  and  it  is  not  strange  that  our  youths  and 
maidens  should  burn  to  see  the  picturesque  extremes  of  an 
antiquated  country.  But  it  is  one  thing  to  visit  the  pyr- 


442  THE  YOUNG  AMERICAN 

amids,  and  another  to  wish  to  live  there.  Would  they  like 
tithes  to  the  clergy,  and  sevenths  to  the  government,  and 
horse-guards,  and  licensed  press,  and  grief  when  a  child  is 
born,  and  threatening,  starved  weavers,  and  a  pauperism 
now  constituting  one-thirteenth  of  the  population?  In 
stead  of  the  open  future  expanding  here  before  the  eye  of 
every  boy  to  vastness,  would  they  like  the  closing  in  of  the 
future  to  a  narrow  slit  of  sky,  and  that  fast  contracting  to 
be  no  future?  One  thing,  for  instance,  the  beauties  of 
aristocracy,  we  commend  to  the  study  of  the  travelling 
American.  The  English,  the  most  conservative  people  this 
side  of  India,  are  not  sensible  of  the  restraint,  but  an  Ameri 
can  would  seriously  resent  it.  The  aristocracy,  incorporated 
by  law  and  education,  degrades  life  for  the  unprivileged 
classes.  It  is  a  questionable  compensation  to  the  em 
bittered  feeling  of  a  proud  commoner,  the  reflection  that  a 
fop,  who,  by  the  magic  of  title,  paralyzes  his  arm,  and  plucks 
from  him  half  the  graces  and  rights  of  a  man,  is  himself  also 
an  aspirant  excluded  with  the  same  ruthlessness  from  higher 
circles,  since  there  is  no  end  to  the  wheels  within  wheels  of 
this  spiral  heaven.  Something  may  be  pardoned  to  the 
spirit  of  loyalty  when  it  becomes  fantastic;  and  something 
to  the  imagination,  for  the  baldest  life  is  symbolic.  Philip 
II.  of  Spain  rated  his  ambassador  for  neglecting  serious  af 
fairs  in  Italy,  whilst  he  debated  some  point  of  honor  with  the 
French  ambassador;  "You  have  left  a  business  of  importance 
for  a  ceremony."  The  ambassador  replied,  "Your  majesty's 
self  is  but  a  ceremony."  In  the  East,  where  the  religious 
sentiment  comes  in  to  the  support  of  the  aristocracy,  and  in 
the  Romish  church  also,  there  is  a  grain  of  sweetness  in  the 
tyranny;  but  in  England,  the  fact  seems  to  me  intolerable, 
what  is  commonly  affirmed,  that  such  is  the  transcendent 
honor  accorded  to  wealth  and  birth,  that  no  man  of  letters, 
be  his  eminence  what  it  may,  is  received  into  the  best  so 
ciety,  except  as  a  lion  and  a  show.  The  English  have  many 
virtues,  many  advantages,  and  the  proudest  history  of  the 
world;  but  they  need  all,  and  more  than  all  the  resources  of 
the  past  to  indemnify  a  heroic  gentleman  in  that  country  for 
the  mortifications  prepared  for  him  by  the  system  of  society, 


THE  YOUNG  AMERICAN  443 

and  which  seem  to  impose  the  alternative  to  resist  or  to 
avoid  it.  That  there  are  mitigations  and  practical  allevia 
tions  to  this  rigor,  is  not  an  excuse  for  the  rule.  Command 
ing  worth,  and  personal  power,  must  sit  crowned  in  all  com 
panies,  nor  will  extraordinary  persons  be  slighted  or  affron 
ted  in  any  company  of  civilized  men.  But  the  system  is  an 
invasion  of  the  sentiment  of  justice  and  the  native  rights  of 
men,  which,  however  decorated,  must  lessen  the  value  of 
English  citizenship.  It  is  for  Englishmen  to  consider,  not 
for  us;  we  only  say,  let  us  live  in  America,  too  thankful  for 
our  want  of  feudal  institutions.  Our  houses  and  towns  are 
like  mosses  and  lichens,  so  slight  and  new;  but  youth  is  a 
fault  of  which  we  shall  daily  mend.  This  land,  too,  is  as 
old  as  the  Flood,  and  wants  no  ornament  or  privilege  which 
nature  could  bestow.  Here  stars,  here  woods,  here  hills, 
here  animals,  here  men  abound,  and  the  vast  tendencies  con 
cur  of  a  new  order.  If  only  the  men  are  employed  in  con 
spiring  with  the  designs  of  the  Spirit  who  led  us  hither,  and 
is  leading  us  still,  we  shall  quickly  enough  advance  out  of  all 
hearing  of  other's  censures,  out  of  all  regrets  of  our  own, 
into  a  new  and  more  excellent  social  state  than  history  has 
recorded. 


POEMS  OF  EMERSON 


DAYS 

DAMSELS  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days, 

Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes, 

And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 

Bring  diadems  and. fagots  in  their  hands. 

To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will, 

Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds  them  all. 

I,  in  my  pleached  garden,  watched  the  pomp, 

Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 

Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 

Turned  and  departed  silent.    I,  too  late, 

Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn. 


V 


GOOD-BYE 


. 


GOOD-BYE,  proud  world!     I'm  going  home: 
Thou  art  not  my  friend,  and  I'm  not  thine. 
Long  through  thy  weary  crowds  I  roam; 
A  river-ark  on  the  ocean  brine, 
Long  I've  been  tossed  like  the  driven  foam; 
But  now,  proud  world!     I'm  going  home. 

Good-bye  to  flattery's  fawning  face; 

To  Grandeur  with  his  wise  grimace; 

To  upstart  wealth's  averted  eye; 

To  supple  Office,  low  and  high; 

To  crowded  halls,  to  court  and  street; 

To  frozen  hearts  and  hasting  feet; 

To  those  who  go,  and  those  who  come; 

Good-bye,  proud  world!     I'm  going  home. 

445 


446  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

I  am  going  to  my  own  hearth  stone, 
Bosomed  in  yon  green  hills  alone, — 
A  secret  nook  in  a  pleasant  land, 
Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  planned; 
Where  arches  green,  the  livelong  day, 
Echo  the  blackbird's  roundelay, 
And  vulgar  feet  have  never  trod 
A  spot  that  is  sacred  to  thought  and  God. 

0,  when  I  am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 
I  tread  on  the  pride  of  Greece  and  Rome; 
And  when  I  am  stretched  beneath  the  pines, 
Where  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 
I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  the  pride  of  man, 
At  the  sophist  schools,  and  the  learned  clan; 
For  what  are  they  all,  in  their  high  conceit, 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet  ? 


THE   RHODORA: 

ON   BEING  ASKED   WHENCE   IS   THE   FLOWER? 

IN  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes, 

I  found  the  fresh  Rhodora  in  the  woods, 

Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp  nook, 

To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook. 

The  purple  petals,  fallen  in  the  pool, 

Made  the  black  water  with  their  beauty  gay; 

Here  might  the  red-bird  come  his  plumes  to  cool, 

And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his  array. 

Rhodora!  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 

This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and  sky, 

Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 

Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being: 

Why  thou  wert  there,  0  rival  of  the  rose! 

I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew; 

But,  in  my  simple  ignorance,  suppose 

The  self -same  Power  that  brought  me  there  brought  you. 


POEMS   OF  EMERSON  447 


THE   HUMBLE-BEE 

BURLY,  dozing  humble-bee, 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me. 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek; 
I  will  follow  thee  alone, 
Thou  animated  torrid-zone! 
Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines; 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion! 
Sailor  of  the  atmosphere; 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air; 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon; 
Epicurean  of  June; 
Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum, — 
All  without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south  wind,  in  May  days, 

With  a  net  of  shining  haze 

Silvers  the  horizon  wall, 

And,  with  softness  touching  all, 

Tints  the  human  countenance 

With  a  color  of  romance, 

And,  infusing  subtle  heats, 

Turns  the  sod  to  violets, 

Thou,  in  sunny  solitudes, 

Rover  of  the  underwoods, 

The  green  silence  dost  displace 

With  thy  mellow,  breezy  bass. 

Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 


448  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure. 

Aught   unsavory   or  unclean 
Hath  my  insect  never  seen; 
But  violets  and  bilberry  bells, 
Maple-sap,  and  daffodels, 
Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 
Succory  to  match  the  sky, 
Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 
Scented  fern,  and  agrimony, 
Clover,  catchfly,  adder's-tongue, 
And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among; 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher ! 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 
Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 
Leave  the  chaff,  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep; 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 

EACH   AND   ALL 

LITTLE  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown, 
Of  thee  from  the  hill-top  looking  down; 
The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 
Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm; 


POEMS   OF   EMERSON  449 

The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon, 

Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 

Stops  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight, 

Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine  height; 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 

Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent. 

All  are  needed  by  each  one; 

Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 

I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 

Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough; 

I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even; 

He  sings  the  song,  but  it  pleases  not  now, 

For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky;  — 

He  sang  to  my  ear, — they  sang  to  my  eye. 

The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore; 

The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 

Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave; 

And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 

Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 

I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 

I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home; 

But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 

Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore, 

With  the  sun  and  the  sand  and  the  wild  uproar. 

The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid, 

As  'mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed, 

Nor  knew  her  beaut3^s  best  attire 

Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  choir. 

At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage, 

Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the  cage; — 

The  gay  enchantment  was  undone, 

A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 

Then  I  said,  "I  covet  truth; 

Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat; 

I  leave  it  behind  with  the  game*  of  youth." — 

As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 

The  ground-pine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 

Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs: 

J  inhaled  the  violet's  breath; 


450  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs; 

Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground; 

Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 

Full  of  light  and  of  deity; 

Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard, 

The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird; — 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole; 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 


THE   PROBLEM^ 

I  LIKE  a  church;  I  like  a  cowl; 

I  love  a  prophet  of  the  soul; 

And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 

Fall  like  sweet  strains,  or  pensive  smiles; 

Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see 

Would  I  that  cowled  churchman  be. 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure, 

Which  I  could  not  on  me  endure  ? 

Not  from  vain  or  shallow  thought 

His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought; 

Never  from  lips  of  cunning  fell 

The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle; 

Out  from  the  heart  of  nature  rolled 

The  burdens  of  the  Bible  old; 

The  litanies  of  nations  came, 

Like  the  volcano's  tongue  of  flame, 

Up  from  the  burning  core  below, — 

The  canticles  of  love  and  woe; 

The  hand  that  rounded  Peter's  dome, 

And  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian  Rome, 

Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity; 

Himself  from  God  he  could  not  free; 

He  builded  better  than  he  knew; — 

The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 

Know'st  thou  what  wove  yon  wood-bird's  nest 

Of  leaves,  and  feathers  from  her  breast? 


POEMS   OF  EMERSON  451 

Or  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell, 
Painting  with  morn  each  annual  cell? 
Or  how  the  sacred  pine-tree  adds 
To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads? 
Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles, 
Whilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles. 
Earth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon, 
As  the  best  gem  upon  her  zone; 
And  Morning  opes  with  haste  her  lids, 
To  gaze  upon  the  Pyramids; 
O'er  England's  abbeys  bends  the  sky, 
As  on  its  friends,  with  kindred  eye; 
For,  out  of  Thought's  interior  sphere 
These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air; 
And  Nature  gladly  gave  them  place, 
Adopted  them  into  her  race, 
And  granted  them  an  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 

These  temples  grew  as  grows  the  grass; 

Art  might  obey,  but  not  surpass. 

The  passive  Master  lent  his  hand 

To  the  vast  soul  that  o'er  him  planned; 

And  the  same  power  that  reared  the  shrine, 

Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within. 

Ever  the  fiery  Pentecost 

Girds  with  one  flame  the  countless  host, 

Trances  the  heart  through  chanting  choirs, 

And  through  the  priest  the  mind  inspires. 

The  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken 
Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken; 
The  words  by  seers  or  sibyls  told, 
In  groves  of  oak,  or  fanes  of  gold, 
Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind, 
Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind. 
One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 
I  know  what  say  the  fathers  wise, — 


452  POEMS   OF   EMERSON 

The  Book  itself  before  me  lies, 
Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augustine, 
And  he  who  blent  both  in  his  line, 
The  younger  Golden  Lips  or  mines, 
Taylor,  the  Shakspeare  of  divines. 
His  words  are  music  to  my  ear, 
I  see  his  cowled  portrait  dear; 
And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 
I  would  not  the  good  bishop  be. 


FORBEARANCE 

HAST  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a  gun? 

Loved  the  wood-rose,  and  left  it  on  its  stalk? 

At  rich  men's  tables  eaten  bread  and  pulse? 

Unarmed,  faced  danger  with  a  heart  of  trust? 

And  loved  so  well  a  high  behavior, 

In  man  or  maid,  that  thou  from  speech  refrained, 

Nobility  more  nobly  to  repay? 

0,  be  my  friend,  and  teach  me  to  be  thine! 


From:  WOODNOTES 


FOR  this  present,  hard 

Is  the  fortune  of  the  bard, 

Born  out  of  time; 
All  his  accomplishment, 
From  Nature's  utmost  treasure  spent, 

Booteth  not  him. 
When  the  pine  tosses  its  cones 
To  the  song  of  its  waterfall  tones, 
He  speeds  to  the  woodland  walks, 
To  birds  and  trees  he  talks: 
Caesar  of  his  leafy  Rome, 
There  the  poet  is  at  home. 


POEMS   OF   EMERSON  453 

He  goes  to  the  river-side — 

Not  hook  nor  line  hath  he; 

He  stands  in  the  meadows  wide,— 

Nor  gun  nor  scythe  to  see; 

With  none  has  he  to  do, 

And  none  seek  him, 

Nor  men  below, 

Nor  spirits  dim. 

Sure  some  god  his  eye  enchants: 

What  he  knows  nobody  wants. 

In  the  wood  he  travels  glad, 

Without  better  fortune  had, 

Melancholy  without  bad. 

Planter  of  celestial  plants, 

What  he  knows  nobody  wants; 

What  he  knows  he  hides,  not  vaunts. 

Knowledge  this  man  prizes  best 

Seems  fantastic  to  the  rest: 

Pondering  shadows,  colors,  clouds, 

Grass-buds,  and  caterpillar-shrouds, 

Boughs  on  which  the  wild  bees  settle, 

Tints  that  spot  the  violet's  petal, 

Why  Nature  loves  the  number  five, 

And  why  the  star-form  she  repeats: 

Lover  of  all  things  alive, 

Wonderer  at  all  he  meets, 

Wonderer  chiefly  at  himself — 

Who  can  tell  him  what  he  is? 

Or  how  meet  in  human  elf 

Coming  and  past  eternities? 

2 

And  such  I  knew,  a  forest  seer, 
A  minstrel  of  the  natural  year, 
Foreteller  of  the  vernal  ides, 
Wise  harbinger  of  spheres  and  tides, 
A  lover  true,  who  knew  by  heart 
Each  joy  the  mountain  dales  impart; 
It  seemed  that  Nature  could  not  raise 


454  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

A  plant  in  any  secret  place, 
In  quaking  bog,  on  snowy  hill, 
Beneath  the  grass  that  shades  the  rill, 
Under  the  snow,  between  the  rocks, 
In  damp  fields  known  to  bird  and  fox, 
But  he  would  come  in  the  very  hour 
It  opened  in  its  virgin  bower, 
As  if  a  sunbeam  showed  the  place, 
And  tell  its  long-descended  race. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  breezes  brought  him; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  sparrows  taught  him; 
As  if  by  secret  sight  he  knew 
Where,  in  far  fields,  the  orchis  grew. 
Many  haps  fall  in  the  field 
Seldom  seen  by  wishful  eyes, 
But  all  her  shows  did  Nature  yield, 
To  please  and  win  this  pilgrim  wise. 
He  saw  the  partridge  drum  in  the  woods; 
He  heard  the  woodcock's  evening  hymn; 
He  found  the  tawny  thrush's  broods; 
And  the  shy  hawk  did  wait  for  him; 
What  others  did  at  distance  hear, 
And  guessed  within  the  thicket's  gloom, 
Was  showed  to  this  philosopher, 
And  at  his  bidding  seemed  to  come. 


In  unploughed  Maine  he  sought  the  lumberer's  gang, 

Where  from  a  hundred  lakes  young  rivers  sprang; 

He  trode  the  unplanted  forest  floor,  whereon 

The  all-seeing  sun  for  ages  hath  not  shone ; 

Where  feeds  the  moose,  and  walks  the  surly  bear, 

And  up  the  tall  mast  runs  the  woodpecker. 

He  saw  beneath  dim  aisles,  in  odorous  beds, 

The  slight  Linnaea  hang  its  twin-born  heads, 

And  blessed  the  monument  of  the  man  of  flowers, 

Which  breathes  his  sweet  fame  through  the  northern  bowers. 

He  heard,  when  in  the  grove,  at  intervals, 

With  sudden  roar  the  aged  pine-tree  falls, — 


POEMS   OF  EMERSON  455 

One  crash,  the  death-hymn  of  the  perfect  tree, 

Declares  the  close  of  its  green  century. 

Low  lies  the  plant  to  whose  creation  went 

Sweet  influence  from  every  element; 

Whose  living  towers  the  years  conspired  to  build, 

Whose  giddy  top  the  morning  loved  to  gild. 

Through  these  green  tents,  by  eldest  Nature  dressed, 

He  roamed,  content  alike  with  man  and  beast. 

Where  darkness  found  him  he  lay  glad  at  night; 

There  the  red  morning  touched  him  with  its  light. 

Three  moons  his  great  heart  him  a  hermit  made, 

So  long  he  roved  at  will  the  boundless1  shade. 

The  timid  it  concerns  to  ask  their  way; 

And  fear  what  foe  in  caves  and  swamps  can  stray, 

To  make  no  step  until  the  event  is  known, 

And  ills  to  come  as  evils  past  bemoan. 

Not  so  the  wise;  no  coward  watch  he  keeps 

To  spy  what  danger  on  his  pathway  creeps; 

Go  where  he  will,  the  wise  man  is  at  home, 

His  hearth  the  earth, — his  hall  the  azure  dome; 

Where  his  clear  spirit  leads  him,  there's  his  road, 

By  God's  own  light  illumined  and  foreshowed. 


[The  Pine  Tree  Sings'] 

"Hearken  once  more! 

I  will  tell  thee  the  mundane  lore. 

Older  am  I  than  thy  numbers  wot; 

Change  I  may,  but  I  pass  not. 

Hitherto  all  things  fast  abide, 

And  anchored  in  the  tempest  ride. 

Trenchant  time  behooves  to  hurry 

All  to  yean  and  all  to  bury: 

All  the  forms  are  fugitive, 

But    the    substances    survive. 

Ever  fresh  the  broad  creation, 

A  divine  improvisation, 

From  the  heart  of  God  proceeds, 

A  single  will,  a  million  deeds. 


456  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

Once  slept  the  world  an  egg  of  stone, 

And  pulse,  and  sound,  and  light  was  none; 

And  God  said,  Throb!'  and  there  was  motion, 

And  the  vast  mass  became  vast  ocean. 

Onward  and  on,  the  eternal  Pan, 

Who  layeth  the  world's  incessant  plan, 

Halteth  never  in  one  shape, 

But  forever  doth  escape, 

Like  wave  or  flame,  into  new  forms 

Of  gem,  and  air,  of  plants,  and  worms. 

I,  that  to-day  am  a  pine, 

Yesterday  was  "a  bundle  of  grass. 

He  is  free  and  libertine, 

Pouring  of  his  power  the  wine 

To  every  age,  to  every  race; 

Unto  every  race  and  age 

He  emptieth  the  beverage; 

Unto  each  and  unto  all, 

Maker  and  original. 

The  world  is  the  ring  of  his  spells, 

And  the  play  of  his  miracles. 

As  he  giveth  to  all  to  drink, 

Thus  or  thus  they  are  and  think. 

He  giveth  little  or  giveth  much, 

To  make  them  several  or  such. 

With  one  drop  sheds  form  and  feature; 

With  the  next  a  special  nature; 

The  third  adds  heat's  indulgent  spark; 

The  fourth  gives  light  which  eats  the  dark; 

Into  the  fifth  himself  he  flings, 

And  conscious  Law  is  King  of  kings. 

Pleaseth  him,  the  Eternal  Child, 

To  play  his  sweet  will,  glad  and  wild; 

As  the  bee  through  the  garden  ranges, 

From  world  to  world  the  godhead  changes; 

As  the  sheep  go  feeding  in  the  waste, 

From  form  to  form  he  maketh  haste; 

This  vault  which  glows  immense  with  light 

Is  the  inn  where  he.  lodges  for  a  night,, 


POEMS   OF  EMERSON  457 

What  recks  such  Traveller  if  the  bowers 

Which  bloom  and  fade  like  meadow  flowers 

A  bunch  of  fragrant  lilies  be, 

Or  the  stars  of  eternity? 

Alike  to  him  the  better,  the  worse,— 

The  glowing  angel,  the  outcast  corse. 

Thou  metest  him  by  centuries, 

And  lo!  he  passes  like  the  breeze; 

Thou  seek'st  in  globe  and  galaxy, 

He   hides   in   pure   transparency; 

Thou  askest  in  fountains  and  in  fires 

He  is  the  essence  that  inquires. 

He  is  the  axis  of  the  star; 

He  is  the  sparkle  of  the  spar; 

He  is  the  heart  of  every  creature; 

He  is  the  meaning  of  each  feature; 

And  his  mind  is  the  sky, 

Than  all  it  holds  more  deep,  more  high." 


MONADNOC 

THOUSAND  minstrels  woke  within  me, 

"Our  music's  in  the  hills;" — 
Gayest  pictures  rose  to  win  me, 

Leopard-colored  rills. 
"Up! — If  thou  knew'st  who  calls 
To  twilight  parks  of  beech  and  pine, 
High  over  the  river  intervals, 
Above  the  ploughman's  highest  line, 
Over  the  owner's  farthest  walls! 
Up!  where  the  airy  citadel 
O'erlooks  the  surging  landscape's  swell! 
Let  not  unto  the  stones  the  Day 
Her  lily  and  rose,  her  sea  and  land  display. 
Read  the  celestial  sign! 
Lo!  the  south  answers  to  the  north; 
Bookworm,  break  this  sloth  urbane; 
A  greater  spirit  bids  thee  forth 


458  POEMS  OF  EMERSON 

Than  the  gray  dreams  which  thee  detain. 

Mark  how  the  climbing  Oreads 

Beckon  thee  to  their  arcades! 

Youth,  for  a  moment  free  as  they, 

Teach  thy  feet  to  feel  the  ground, 

Ere  yet  arrives  the  wintry  day 

When  Time  thy  feet  has  bound. 

Take  the  bounty  of  thy  birth, 

Taste  the  lordship  of  the  earth." 

I  heard,  and  I  obeyed, — 
Assured  that  he  who  made  the  claim, 
Well  known,  but  loving  not  a  name, 

Was  not  to  be  gainsaid. 

Ere  yet  the  summoning  voice  was  still, 

I  turned  to  Cheshire's  haughty  hill. 

From  the  fixed  cone  the  cloud-rack  flowed. 

Like  ample  banner  flung  abroad 

To  all  the  dwellers  in  the  plains 

Round  about,  a  hundred  miles, 

With  salutation  to  the  sea,  and  to  the  bordering  islea 

In  his  own  loom's  garment  dressed, 
By  his  proper  bounty  blessed, 
Fast  abides  this  constant  giver, 
Pouring  many  a  cheerful  river; 
To  far  eyes,  an  aerial  isle 
Unploughed,  which  finer  spirits  pile, 
Which  morn  and  crimson  evening  paint 
For  bard,  for  lover,  and  for  saint; 
The  people's  pride,  and  country's  core, 
Inspirer,  prophet  evermore; 
Pillar  which  God  aloft  had  set 
So  that  men  might  it  not  forget; 
It  should  be  their  life's  ornament, 
And  mix  itself  with  each  event; 
Gauge  and  calendar  and  dial, 
Weatherglass  and  chemic  phial, 


POEMS   OF  EMERSON  459 

Garden  of  berries,  perch  of  birds, 
Pasture  of  pool-haunting  herds, 
Graced  by  each  change  of  sum  untold, 
Earth-baking  heat,  stone-cleaving  cold. 


The  Titan  heeds  his  sky-affairs, 
Rich  rents  and  wide  alliance  shares; 
Mysteries  of  color  daily  laid 
By  the  sun  in  light  and  shade; 
And  sweet  varieties  of  chance, 
And  the  mystic  seasons'  dance; 
And  thief-like  step  of  liberal  hours 
Thawing  snow-drift  into  flowers. 
0  wondrous  craft  of  plant  and  stone 
By  eldest  science  done  and  shown ! 


"Happy,"  I  said,  "whose  home  is  here! 
Fair  fortunes  to  the  mountaineer! 
Boon  Nature  to  his  poorest  shed 
Has  royal  pleasure-grounds  outspread." 
Intent,  I  searched  the  region  round, 
And  in  low  hut  my  monarch  found: — 
Woe  is  me  for  my  hope's  downfall! 
Is  yonder  squalid  peasant  all 
That  this  proud  nursery  could  breed 
For  God's  vicegerency  and  stead? 
Time  out  of  mind,  this  forge  of  ores; 
Quarry  of  spars  in  mountain  pores; 
Old  cradle,  hunting-ground,  and  bier 
Of  wolf  and  otter,  bear  and  deer; 
Well-built  abode  of  many  a  race; 
Tower  of  observance  searching  space; 
Factory  of  river  and  of  rain; 
Link  in  the  alps'  globe-girding  chain; 
By  million  changes  skilled  to  tell 
What  in  the  Eternal  standeth  well, 
And  what  obedient  Nature  can;— 
Is  this  colossal  talisman 


460  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

Kindly  to  creature,  blood,  and  king, 
Yet  speechless  to  the  master's  mind? 
I  thought  to  find  the  patriots 
In  whom  the  stock  of  freedom  roots: 
To  myself  I  oft  recount 
Tales  of  many  a  famous  mount, — 
Wales,  Scotland,  Uri,  Hungary's  dells; 
Bards,  Roys,  Scanderbegs,  and  Tells. 
Here  Nature  shall  condense  her  powers, 
Her  music,  and  her  meteors, 
And  lifting  man  to  the  blue  deep 
Where  stars  their  perfect  courses  keep, 
Like  wise  preceptor,  lure  his  eye 
To  sound  the  science  of  the  sky, 
And  carry  learning  to  its  height 
Of  untried  power  and  sane  delight: 
The  Indian  cheer,  the  frosty  skies, 
Rear  purer  wits,  inventive  eyes, — 
Eyes  that  frame  cities  where  none  be 
And  hands  that  stablish  what  these  see; 
And  by  the  moral  of  his  place 
Hint  summits  of  heroic  grace; 
Man  in  these  crags  a  fastness  find 
To  fight  pollution  of  the  mind; 
In  the  wide  thaw  and  ooze  of  wrong, 
Adhere  like  this  foundation  strong, 
The  insanity  of  towns  to  stem 
With  simpleness  of  stratagem. 
But  if  the  brave  old  mould  is  broke, 
And  end  in  churls  the  mountain  folk, 
In  tavern  cheer  and  tavern  joke, 
Sink,  0  mountain,  in  the  swamp! 
Hide  in  thy  skies,  0  sovereign  lamp! 
Perish  like  leaves,  the  highland  breed! 
No  sire  survive,  no  son  succeed! 
Soft !  let  not  the  offended  muse 
Toil's  hard  hap  with  scorn  accuse. 
Many  hamlets  sought  I  then, 
Many  farms  of  mountain  men; 


POEMS   OF  EMERSON  461 

Found  I  not  a  minstrel  seed, 

But  men  of  bone,  and  good  at  need. 

Rallying  round  a  parish  steeple 

Nestle  warm  the  highland  people, 

Coarse  and  boisterous,  yet  mild, 

Strong  as  giant,  slow  as  child, 

Smoking  in  a  squalid  room 

Where  yet  the  westland  breezes  come. 

Close  hid  in  those  rough  guises  lurk 

Western  magians, — here  they  work. 

Sweat  and  season  are  their  arts, 

Their  talismans  are  ploughs  and  carts; 

And  well  the  youngest  can  command 

Honey  from  the  frozen  land; 

With  sweet  hay  the  wild  swamp  adorn, 

Change  the  running  sand  to  corn; 

For  wolves  and  foxes,  lowing  herds, 

And  for  cold  mosses,  cream  and  curds; 

Weave  wood  to  canisters  and  mats; 

Drain  sweet  maple  juice  in  vats; 

No  bird  is  safe  that  cuts  the  air 

From  their  rifle  or  their  snare; 

No  fish,  in  river  or  in  lake, 

But  their  long  hands  it  thence  will  take; 

And  the  country's  flinty  face, 

Like  wax,  their  fashioning  skill  betrays, 

To  fill  the  hollows,  sink  the  hills, 

Bridge  gulfs,  drain  swamps,  build  dams  and  mills, 

And  fit  the  bleak  and  howling  place 

For  gardens  of  a  finer  race. 

The  World-soul  knows  his  own  affair, 
Forelooking,  when  he  would  prepare 
For  the  next  ages,  men  of  mould 
Well  embodied,  well  ensouled, 
He  cools  the  present's  fiery  glow, 
Sets  the  life-pulse  strong  but  slow: 
Bitter  winds  and  fasts  austere 
His  quarantines  and  grottos,  where 


462  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

He  slowly  cures  decrepit  flesh, 

And  brings  it  infantile  and  fresh. 

Toil  and  tempest  are  the  toys 

And  games  to  breathe  his  stalwart  boys: 

They  bide  their  time,  and  well  can  prove, 

If  need  were,  their  line  from  Jove; 

Of  the  same  stuff,  and  so  allayed, 

As  that  whereof  the  sun  is  made, 

And  of  the  fibre,  quick  and  strong, 

Whose  throbs  are  love,  whose  thrills  are  song. 

Now  in  sordid  weeds  they  sleep, 

In  dullness  now  their  secret  keep; 

Yet,  will  you  learn  our  ancient  speech, 

These  the  masters  who  can  teach. 

Fourscore  or  a  hundred  words 

All  their  vocal  muse  affords; 

But  they  turn  them  in  a  fashion 

Past  clerks'  or  statesmen's  art  or  passion. 

I  can  spare  the  college  bell, 

And  the  learned  lecture,  well; 

Spare  the  clergy  and  libraries, 

Institutes  and  dictionaries, 

For  that  hardy  English  root 

Thrives  here,  unvalued,  underfoot. 

Rude  poets  of  the  tavern  hearth, 

Squandering  your  unquoted  mirth, 

Which  keeps  the  ground,  and  never  soars, 

While  Jake  retorts,  and  Reuben  roars; 

Scoff  of  yeoman  strong  and  stark, 

Goes  like  bullet  to  its  mark; 

While  the  solid  curse  and  jeer 

Never  balk  the  waiting  ear. 

To  student  ears  keen  relished  jokes 

On  truck,  and  stock,  and  farming  folks, — 

Naught  the  mountain  yields  thereof, 

But  savage  health  and  sinews  tough. 

On  the  summit  as  I  stood, 

O'er  the  floor  of  plain  and  flood 


POEMS  OF  EMERSON  463 

Seemed  to  me,  the  towering  hill 
Was  not  altogether  still, 
But  a  quiet  sense  conveyed; 
If  I  err  not,  thus  it  said: — 

"Many  feet  in  summer  seek, 

Betimes,  my  far-appearing  peak; 

In  the  dreaded  winter  time, 

None  save  dappling  shadows  climb, 

Under  clouds,  my  lonely  head, 

Old  as  the  sun,  old  almost  as  the  shade. 

And  comest  thou 

To  see  strange  forests  and  new  snow, 

And  tread  uplifted  land? 

And  leavest  thou  thy  lowland  race, 

Here  amid  clouds  to  stand? 

And  wouldst  be  my  companion, 

Where  I  gaze,  and  still  shall  gaze, 

Through  tempering  nights  and  flashing  days, 

When  forests  fall  and  man  is  gone, 

Over  tribes  and  over  times, 

At  the  burning  Lyre, 

Nearing  me, 

With  its  stars  of  northern  fire, 

In  many  a  thousand  years? 

"Ah!  welcome,  if  thou  bring 
My  secret  in  thy  brain; 
To  mountain-top  may  Muse's  wing 
With  good  allowance  strain. 
Gentle  pilgrim,  if  thou  know 
The  gamut  old  of  Pan, 
And  how  the  hills  began, 
The  frank  blessings  of  the  hill 
Fall  on  thee,  as  fall  they  will. 
'Tis  the  law  of  bush  and  stone, 
Each  can  only  take  his  own. 

"Let  him  heed  who  can  and  will; 
Enchantment  fixed  me  here 


464  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

To  stand  the  hurts  of  time,  until 
In  mightier  chant  I  disappear. 

"If  thou  trowest 
How  the  chemic  eddies  play, 
Pole  to  pole,  and  what  they  say; 
And  that  these  gray  crags 
Not  on  crags  are  hung, 
But  beads  are  of  a  rosary 
On  prayer  and  music  strung; 
And,  credulous,  through  the  granite  seeming, 
Seest  the  smile  of  Reason  beaming;  — 
Can  thy  style-discerning  eye 
The  hidden-working  Builder  spy, 
Who  builds,  yet  makes  no  chips,  no  din, 
With  hammer  soft  as  snow-flake's  flight;  — 
Knowest  thou  this? 
0  pilgrim,  wandering  not  amiss! 
Already  my  rocks  lie  light, 
And  soon  my  cone  will  spin. 

"For  the  world  was  built  in  order, 
And  the  atoms  march  in  tune; 
Rhyme  the  pipe,  and  Time  the  warder, 
Cannot  forget  the  sun,  the  moon. 
Orb  and  atom  forth  they  prance, 
When  they  hear  from  far  the  rune; 
None  so  backward  in  the  troop, 
When  the  music  and  the  dance 
Reach  his  place  and  circumstance, 
But  knows  the  sun-creating  sound, 
And,  though  a  pyramid,  will  bound. 

"Monadnoc  is  a  mountain  strong, 
Tall  and  good  my  kind  among; 
But  well  I  know,  no  mountain  can 
Measure  with  a  perfect  man. 
For  it  is  on  zodiacs  writ, 
Adamant  is  soft  to  wit: 


POEMS  OF  EMERSON  465 

And  when  the  greater  comes  again 
With  my  secret  in  his  brain, 
I  shall  pass,  as  glides  my  shadow 
Daily  over  hill  and  meadow. 

"Through  all  time,  in  light,  in  gloom, 

Well  I  hear  the  approaching  feet 

On  the  flinty  pathway  beat 

Of  him  that  cometh,  and  shall  come: 

Of  him  who  shall  as  lightly  bear 

My  daily  load  of  woods  and  streams, 

As  doth  this  round  sky-cleaving  boat 

Which  never  strains  its  rocky  beams: 

Whose  timbers,  as  they  silent  float, 

Alps  and  Caucasus  uprear, 

And  the  long  Alleghanies  here, 

And  all  town-sprinkled  lands  that  be, 

Sailing  through  stars  with  all  their  history. 

"Every  morn  I  lift  my  head, 

Gaze  o'er  New  England  underspread, 

South  from  Saint  Lawrence  to  the  Sound, 

From  Katskill  east  to  the  sea-bound. 

Anchored  fast  for  many  an  age, 

I  await  the  bard  and  sage, 

Who,  in  large  thoughts,  like  fair  pearl-seed, 

Shall  string  Monadnoc  like  a  bead. 

Comes  that  cheerful  troubadour, 

This  mound  shall  throb  his  face  before, 

As  when,  with  inward  fires  and  pain, 

It  rose  a  bubble  from  the  plain. 

When  he  cometh,  I  shall  shed, 

From  this  wellspring  in  my  head, 

Fountain-drop  of  spicier  worth 

Than  all  vintage  of  the  earth. 

There's  fruit  upon  my  barren  soil 

Costlier  far  than  wine  or  oil. 

There's  a  berry  blue  and  gold, — 

Autumn-ripe,  its  juices  hold 


466  POEMS  OF  EMERSON 

Sparta's  stoutness,  Bethlehem's  heart, 

Asia's  rancor,  Athens'  art, 

Slowsure  Britain's  secular  might, 

And  'the  German's  inward  sight. 

I  will  give  my  son  to  eat 

Best  of  Pan's  immortal  meat, 

Bread  to  eat,  and  juice  to  drink; 

So  the  thoughts  that  he  shall  think 

Shall  not  be  forms  of  stars,  but  stars, 

Nor  pictures  pale,  but  Jove  and  Mars 

He  comes,  but  not  of  that  race  bred 

Who  daily  climb  my  specular  head. 

Oft  as  morning  wreathes  my  scarf, 

Fled  the  last  plumule  of  the  Dark, 

Pants  up  hither  the  spruce  clerk 

From  South  Cove  and  City  Wharf. 

I  take  him  up  my  rugged  sides, 

Half-repentant, .  scant  of  breath, — 

Bead-eyes  my  granite  chaos  show, 

And  my  midsummer  snow; 

Open  the  daunting  map  beneath, — 

All  his  county,  sea  and  land, 

Dwarfed  to  measure  of  his  hand; 

His  day's  ride  is  a  furlong  space, 

His  city-tops  a  glimmering  haze. 

I  plant  his  eyes  on  the  sky-hoop  bounding: 

'  See  there  the  grim  gray  rounding 

Of  the  bullet  of  the  earth 

Whereon  ye  sail, 

Tumbling  steep 

In  the  uncontinented  deep.' 

He  looks  on  that,  and  he  turns  pale. 

Tis  even  so;  this  treacherous  kite, 

Farm-furrowed,  town-incrusted  sphere 

Thoughtless  of  its  anxious  freight, 

Plunges  eyeless  on  forever; 

And  he,  poor  parasite, 

Cooped  in  a  ship  he  cannot  steer,-* 

Who  is  the  captain  he  JbjQws_  not,,    .:.      ~ .... . 


POEMS  OF  EMERSON  467 

Port  or  pilot  trows  not, — 
Risk  or  ruin  he  must  share. 
I  scowl  on  him  with  my  cloud, 
With  my  north  wind  chill  his  blood; 
I  lame  him,  clattering  down  the  rocks; 
And  to  live  he  is  in  fear. 
Then,  at  last,  I  let  him  down 
Once  more  into  his  dapper  town, 
To  chatter,  frightened,  to  his  clan, 
And  forget  me  if  he  can." 

As  in  the  old  poetic  fame 

The  gods  are  blind  and  lame, 

And  the  simular  despite 

Betrays  the  more  abounding  might, 

So  call  not  waste  that  barren  cone 

Above  the  floral  zone, 

Where  forests  starve: 

It  is  pure  use;  — 

What  sheaves  like  those  which  here  we  glean  and  bind 

Of  a  Celestial  Ceres  and  the  Muse? 

Ages  are  thy  days, 

Thou  grand  expresser  of  the  present  tense, 

And  type  of  permanence! 

Firm  ensign  of  the  fatal  Being, 

Amid  these  coward  shapes  of  joy  and  grief, 

That  will  not  bide  the  seeing! 

Hither  we  bring 

Our  insect  miseries  to  thy  rocks; 

And  the  whole  flight,  with  pestering  wing, 

Danish,  and  end  their  murmuring, —       .       . 

Vanish  beside  these  dedicated  blocks, 

Which  who  can  tell  what  mason  laid? 

Spoils  of  a  front  none  need  restore, 

Replacing  frieze  and  architrave;  — 

Yet  flowers  each  stone  rosette  and  metrope  brave; 

Still  is  the  haughty  pile  erect 

Of  the  old  building  Intellect. 


468  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

Complement  of  human  kind, 
Having  us  at  vantage  still, 
Our  sumptuous  indigence, 
0  barren  mound,  thy  plenties  fill! 
We  fool  and  prate; 
Thou  art  silent  and  sedate. 
To  myriad  kinds  and  times  one  sense 
The  constant  mountain  doth  dispense; 
Shedding  on  all  its  snows  and  leaves, 
One  joy  it  joys,  one  grief  it  grieves. 
Thou  seest,  0  watchman  tall, 
Our  towns  and  races  grow  and  fall, 
And  imagest  the  stable  good 
For  which  we  all  our  lifetime  grope, 
In  shifting  form  the  formless  mind, 
And  though  the  substance  us  elude, 
We  in  thee  the  shadow  find. 
Thou,  in  our  astronomy 
An  opaquer  star, 
Seen  haply  from  afar, 
Above  the  horizon's  hoop, 
A  moment,  by  the  railway  troop, 
As  o'er  some  bolder  height  they  speed,- 
By  circumspect  ambition, 
By  errant  gain, 

By   feasters  and  the  frivolous, — 
Recallest    us, 
And  makest  sane. 
Mute  orator!  well  skilled  to  plead, 
And  send  conviction  without  phrase, 
Thou  dost  supply 
The  shortness  of  our  days, 
And  promise,  on  thy  Founder's  truth, 
Long  morrow  to  this  mortal  youth. 


FABLE 

THE  mountain  and  the  squirrel 
Had  a  quarrel; 


POEMS   OF  EMERSON  469 

And  the  former  called  the  latter  "Little  Prig." 

Bun  replied, 

"You  are  doubtless  very  big; 

But  all  sorts  of  things  and  weather 

Must  be  taken  in  together, 

To  make  up  a  year 

And  a  sphere. 

And  I  think  it  no  disgrace 

To  occupy  my  place. 

If  I'm  not  so  large  as  you, 

You  are  not  so  small  as  I, 

And  not  half  so  spry, 

I'll  not  deny  you  make 

A  very  pretty  squirrel  track; 

Talents  differ;  all  is  well  and  wisely  put; 

If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  my  back, 

Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut." 


THE  SNOW-STORM 

ANNOUNCED  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow,  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight;  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fire-place,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

Come  see  the  north  wind's  masonry. 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Round  every  windward  stake,  or  tree,  or  door. 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work 
So  fanciful,  so  savage,  nought  cares  he 
For  number  or  proportion.    Mockingly, 
OK  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths; 


470  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

A  swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn; 
Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to  wall, 
Maugre  the  farmer's  sighs;  and,  at  the  gate, 
A  tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 
And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the  world 
Is  all  his  own,  retiring,  as  he  were  not, 
Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished  Art 
To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 
Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night-work, 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 


BRAHMA 

IF  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays, 
Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain, 

They  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways 
I  keep,  and  pass,  and  turn  again. 

Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near; 

Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same; 
The  vanquished  gods  to  me  appear; 

And  one  to  me  are  shame  and  fame. 

They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out; 

When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings; 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt, 

And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 

The  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode, 
And  pine  in  vain  the  sacred  Seven; 

But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  good! 

Find  me,  and  turn  thy  back  on  heaven. 


THE   SPHINX 

THE  Sphinx  is  drowsy, 
Her  wings  are  furled; 

Her  ear  is  heavy, 
She  broods  on  the  world. 


POEMS   OF   EMERSON  471 

"Who'll  tell  me  my  secret, 

The  ages  have  kept  ? — 
I  waited  the  seer, 

While  they  slumbered  and  slept;— 

"The  fate  of  the  man-child; 

The  meaning  of  man; 
Known  fruit  of  the  unknown; 

Daedalian  plan; 
Out  of  sleeping  a  waking, 

Out  of  waking  a  sleep; 
Life  death  overtaking; 

Deep  underneath  deep? 

"Erect  as  a  sunbeam, 

Upspringeth  the  palm; 
The  elephant  browses, 

Undaunted  and  calm; 
In  beautiful  motion 

The  thrush  plies  his  wings: 
Kind  leaves  of  his  covert, 

Your  silence  he  sings. 

"The  waves,  unashamed, 

In  difference  sweet, 
Play  glad  with  the  breezes, 

Old  playfellows  meet; 
The  journeying  atoms, 

Primordial  wholes, 
Firmly  draw,  firmly  drive, 

By  their  animate  poles. 

"Sea,  earth,  air,  sound,  silence, 

Plant,  quadruped,  bird, 
By  one  music  enchanted, 

One  deity  stirred, — 
Each  the  other  adorning, 

Accompany  still; 
Night  veileth  the  morning, 

The  vapor  the  hill 


472  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

"The  babe  by  its  mother 

Lies  bathed  in  joy; 
Glide  its  hours  uncounted, — 

The  sun  is  its  toy; 
Shines  the  peace  of  all  being, 

Without  cloud  in  its  eyes; 
And  the  sun  of  the  world 

In  soft  miniature  lies. 

"But  man  crouches  and  blushes, 

Absconds  and  conceals; 
He  creepeth  and  peepeth, 

He  palters  and  steals; 
Infirm,  melancholy, 

Jealous  glancing  around, 
An  oaf,  an  accomplice, 

He  poisons  the  ground. 

"Out  spoke  the  great  mother, 

Beholding  his  fear;  — 
At  the  sound  of  her  accents 

Cold  shuddered  the  sphere: — 
'Who  has  drugged  my  boy's  cup? 

Who  has  mixed  my  boy's  bread? 
Who,  with  sadness  and  madness, 

Has  turned  the  man-child's  head?'" 

I  heard  a  poet  answer 

Aloud  and  cheerfully, 
"Say  on,  sweet  Sphinx!  thy  dirges 

Are  pleasant  songs  to  me; 
Deep  love  lieth  under 

These  pictures  of  time; 
They  fade  in  the  light  of 

Their  meaning  sublime. 

"The  fiend  that  man  harries 

Is  love  of  the  Best; 
Yawns  the  pit  of  the  Dragon, 

Lit  by  rays  from  the  Blest. 


POEMS   OF   EMERSON  473 

The  Lethe  of  nature 

Can't  trance  him  again, 
Whose  soul  sees  the  perfect, 

Which  his  eyes  seek  in  vain. 

"Profounder,  profounder, 

Man's  spirit  must  dive; 
To  his  aye-rolling  orbit 

No  goal  will  arrive; 
The  heavens  that  now  draw  him 

With  sweetness  untold, 
Once  found, — for  new  heavens 

He  spurneth  the  old. 

"Pride  ruined  the  angels, 

Their  shame  them  restores; 
And  the  joy  that  is  sweetest 

Lurks  in  stings  of  remorse. 
Have  I  a  lover 

Who  is  noble  and  free? — 
I  would  he  were  nobler 

Than  to  love  me. 

"Eterne  alternation 

Now  follows,  now  flies; 
And  under  pain,  pleasure, — 

Under  pleasure,  pain  lies. 
Love  works  at  the  center, 

Heart-heaving  alway; 
Forth  speed  the  strong  pulses 

To  the  borders  of  day. 

"Dull  Sphinx,  Jove  keep  thy  five  wits: 

Thy  sight  is  growing  blear; 
Rue,  myrrh,  and  cummin  for  the  Sphinx — 

Her  muddy  eyes  to  clear!" — 
The  old  Sphinx  bit  her  thick  lip,— 

Said,  "Who  taught  thee  me  to  name? 
I  am  thy  spirit,  yoke-fellow, 

Of  thine  eye  I  am  eyebeam. 


474  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

"Thou  art  the  unanswered  question; 

Could'st  see  thy  proper  eye, 
Always  it  asketh,  asketh; 

And  each  answer  is  a  lie. 
So  take  thy  quest  through  nature, 

It  through  thousand  natures  ply; 
Ask  on,  thou  clothed  eternity; 

Time  is  the  false  reply." 

Uprose  the  merry  Sphinx, 

And  crouched  no  more  in  stone; 
She  melted  into  purple  cloud, 

She  silvered  in  the  morn; 
She  spired  into  a  yellow  flame; 

She  flowered  in  blossoms  red; 
She  flowed  into  a  foaming  wave: 

She  stood   Monadoc's  head. 

Through  a  thousand  voices 
Spoke  the  universal  dame: 

"Who  telleth  one  of  my  meanings 
Is  master  of  all  I  am." 


THE  VISIT 

ASKEST,  "How  long  thou  shalt  stay?" 

Devastator  of  the  day! 

Know,  each  substance,  and  relation, 

Thorough  nature's  operation,    . 

Hath  its  unit,  bound,  and  metre; 

And  every  new  compound 

Is  some  product  and  repeater. — 

Product  of  the  earlier  found. 

But  the  unit  of  the  visit, 

The  encounter  of  the  wise, — 

Say,  what  other  metre  is  it 

Than  the  meeting  of  the  eyes? 


POEMS   OF  EMERSON  475 

Nature  poureth  into  nature 

Through  the  channels  of  that  feature. 

Riding  on  the  ray  of  sight, 

Fleeter  far  than  whirlwinds  go, 

Or  for  service,  or  delight, 

Hearts  to  hearts  their  meaning  show, 

Sum  their  long  experience, 

And  import  intelligence. 

Single  look  has  drained  the  breast; 

Single  moment  years  confessed. 

The  duration  of  a  glance 

Is  the  term  of  convenance, 

And,  though  thy  rede  be  church  or  state, 

Frugal  multiples  of  that. 

Speeding  Saturn  cannot  halt; 

Linger — thou  shalt  rue  the  fault; 

If  Love  his  moment  overstay, 

Hatred's  swift  repulsions  play. 


THE  WORLD-SOUL 

THANKS  to  the  morning  light, 

Thanks  to  the  foaming  sea, 
To  the  uplands  of  New  Hampshire, 

To  the  green-haired  forest  free; 
Thanks  to  each  man  of  courage, 

To  the  maids  of  holy  mind; 
To  the  boy  with  his  games  undaunted, 

Who  never  looks  behind. 

Cities  of  proud  hotels, 

Houses  of  rich  and  great, 
Vice  nestles  in  your  chambers, 

Beneath  your  roofs  of  slate. 
It  cannot  conquer  folly, 

Time-and-space-conquering  steam, 
And  the  light-outspeeding  telegraph 

Bears  nothing  on  its  beam. 


476  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

The  politics  are  base; 

The  letters  do  not  cheer; 
And  'tis  far  in  the  deeps  of  history, 

The  voice  that  speaketh  clear. 
Trade  and  the  streets  ensnare  us, 

Our  bodies  are  weak  and  worn; 
We  plot  and  corrupt  each  other, 

And  we  despoil  the  unborn. 

Yet  there  in  the  parlor  sits 

Some  figure  of  noble  guise, — 
Our  angel,  in  a  stranger's  form, 

Or  woman's  pleading  eyes; 
Or  only  a  flashing  sunbeam 

In  at  the  window-pane; 
Or  music  pours  on  mortals 

Its  beautiful  disdain. 

The  inevitable  morning 

Finds  them  who  in  cellars  be; 
And  be  sure  the  all-loving  Nature 

Will  smile  in  a  factory. 
Yon  ridge  of  purple  landscape, 

Yon  sky  between  the  walls, 
Hold  all  the  hidden  wonders, 

In  scanty  intervals. 

Alas !  the  Sprite  that  haunts  us 

Deceives  our  rash  desire; 
It  whispers  of  the  glorious  gods, 

And  leaves  us  in  the  mire. 
We  cannot  learn  the  cipher 

That's  writ  upon  our  cell; 
Stars  help  us  by  a  mystery  j 

Which  we  could  never  spell.  ' 

If  but  one  hero  knew  it,  I 

The  world  would  blush  in  flame; 

The  sage,  till  he  hit  the  secret, 
Would  hang  his  head  for  shame. 


POEMS  OF  EMERSON  477 

But  our  brothers  have  not  read  it, 

Not  one  has  found  the  key; 
And  henceforth  we  are  comforted, — 

We  are  but  such  as  they. 

Still,  still  the  secret  presses; 

The  nearing  clouds  draw  down; 
The  crimson  mqjning  flames  into 

The  fopperies  of  the  town. 
Within,  without  the  idle  earth, 

Stars  weave  eternal  rings; 
The  sun  himself  shines  heartily, 

And  shares  the  joy  he  brings. 

And  what  if  Trade  sow  cities 

Like  shells  along  the  shore, 
And  thatch  with  towns  the  prairie  broad, 

With  railways  ironed  o'er? — 
They  are  but  sailing  foam-bells 

Along  Thought's  causing  stream, 
And  take  their  shape  and  sun-color 

From  him  that  sends  the  dream. 

For  Destiny  does  not  like 

To  yield  to  men  the  helm; 
And  snoots  his  thought,  by  hidden  nerves, 

Throughout  the  solid  realm. 
The  patient  Daemon  sits, 

With  roses  and  a  shroud; 
He  has  his  way,  and  deals  his  gifts,— 

But  ours  is  not  allowed. 

He  is  no  churl  nor  trifler, 

And  his  viceroy  is  none, — 
Love-without-weakness, — 

Of  Genius  sire  and  son. 
And  his  will  is  not  thwarted; 

The  seeds  of  land  and  sea 
Are  the  atoms  of  his  body  bright, 
his  behest  obey. 


478  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

He  serveth  the  servant, 

The  brave  he  loves  amain; 
He  kills  the  cripple  and  the  sick, 

And  straight  begins  again. 
For  gods  delight  in  gods, 

And  thrust  the  weak  aside; 
To  him  who  scorns  their  charities, 

Their  arms  fly  open  wide. 

When  the  old  world  is  sterile, 

And  the  ages  are  effete, 
He  will  from  wrecks  and  sediment 

The  fairer  world  complete. 
He  forbids  to  despair; 

His  cheeks  mantle  with  mirth; 
And  the  unimagined  good  of  men 

Is  yeaning  at  the  birth. 

Spring  still  makes  spring  in  the  mind, 

When  sixty  years  are  told; 
Love  wakes  anew  this  throbbing  heart, 

And  we  are  never  old. 
Over  the  winter  glaciers, 

I  see  the  summer  glow, 
And,  through  the  wild-piled  snowdrift, 

The  warm  rosebuds  below. 


TO  J.  W. 

SET  not  thy  foot  on  graves; 

Hear  what  wine  and  roses  say; 

The  mountain  chase,  the  summer  waves, 

The  crowded  town,  thy  feet  may  weir  delay. 

Set  not  thy  foot  on  graves; 

Nor  seek  to  unwind  the  shroud 

Which  charitable  Time 

And  Nature  have"  allowed 

To  wrap  the  errors  of  a  sage  sublime. 


POEMS   OF  EMERSON  479 

Set  not  thy  foot  on  graves; 
Care  not  to  strip  the  dead 
Of  his  sad  ornament, 
His  myrrh,  and  wine,  and  rings, 

His  sheet  of  lead, 

And  trophies  buried: 

Go,  get  them  where  he  earned  them  when  alive; 

As  resolutely  dig  or  dive. 

Life  is  too  short  to  waste 

In  critic  peep  or  cynic  bark, 

Quarrel  or  reprimand: 

Twill  soon  be  dark; 

Up!  mind  thine  own  aim,  and  :,v 

God  speed  the  mark! 

HAMATREYA 

MINOTT,    Lee,    Willard,    Hosmer,    Meriam/  Flint, 
Possessed  the  land  which  rendered  to  their  toil 
Hay,  corn,  roots,  hemp,  flax,  apples,  wool,  and  wood. 
Each  of  these  landlords  walked  amidst  his  farm, 
Saying,  "  Tis  mine,  my  children's,  and  my  name's: 
How  sweet  the  west  wind  sounds  in  my  own  trees! 
How  graceful  climb  those  shadows  on  my  hill ! 
I  fancy  these  pure  waters  and  the  flags 
Know  me,  as  does  my  dog:  we  sympathize; 
And,  I  affirm,  my  actions  smack  of  the  soil." 

Where  are  these  men?    Asleep  beneath  their  grounds; 
And  strangers,  fond  as  they,  their  furrows  plough. 
Earth  laughs  in  flowers,  to  see  her  boastful  boys 
Earth-proud,  proud  of  the  earth  which  is  not  theirs; 
Who  steer  the  plough,  but  cannot  steer  their  feet 
Clear  of  the  grave. 

They  added  ridge  to  valley,  brook  to  pond, 
And  sighed  for  all  that  bounded  their  domain. 
"This  suits  me  for  a  pasture;  that's  my  park; 
We  must  have  clay,  lime,  gravel,  granite-ledge, 
And  misty  lowland,  .where  to  go  for  peak-  .....-• 


480  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

The  land  is  well, — lies  fairly  to  the  south. 
Tis  good,  when  you  have  crossed  the  sea  and  back. 
To  find  the  sitfast  acres  where  you  left  them." 
Ah!  the  hot  owner  sees  not  Death,  who  adds 
Him  to  his  land,  a  lump  of  mould  the  more. 
Hear  what  the  Earth  says: — 

EARTH-SONG 

"Mine  and  yours; 

Mine,  not  yours. 

Earth  endures; 

Stars  abide — 

Shine  down  on  the  old  sea; 

Old  are  the  shores; 

But  where  are  the  old  men? 

I  who  have  seen  much, 

Such  have  I  never  seen. 

"The  lawyer's  deed 

Ran  sure, 

In  tail, 

To  them,  and  to  their  heirs 

Who  shall  succeed, 

Without  fail, 

Forevermore. 

"Here  is  the  land, 
Shaggy  with  wood, 
With  its  old  valley, 
Mound,  and  flood. 
But  the  heritors?         * 
Fled  like  the  flood's  foam, — 
The  lawyer,  and  the  laws, 
And  the  kingdom, 
Clean  swept  herefrom. 

"They  called  me  theirs, 
Who  so  controlled  me; 
Yet  every  one 
Wished  to  stay,  and  is  gone. 


POEMS   OF  EMERSON  481 

How  am  I  theirs, 

If  they  cannot  hold  me, 

But  I  hold  them?" 

When  I  heard  the  Earth-song, 

I  was  no  longer  brave; 

My  avarice  cooled 

Like  lust  in  the  chill  of  the  grave. 

THRENODY 

THE  South-wind  brings 

Life,  sunshine,  and  desire, 

And  on  every  mount  and  meadow 

Breathes  aromatic  fire; 

But  over  the  dead  he  has  no  power, 

The  lost,  the  lost,  he  cannot  restore; 

And,  looking  over  the  hills,  I  mourn 

The  darling  who  shall  not  return. 

I  see  my  empty  house, 

I  see  my  trees  repair  their  boughs; 

And  he,  the  wondrous  child, 

Whose  silver  warble  wild 

Outvalued  every  pulsing  sound 

Within  the  air's  cerulean  round, — 

The  hyacinthine  boy,  for  whom 

Morn  well  might  break  the  April  bloom, — 

The  gracious  boy,  who  did  adorn 

The  world  whereinto  he  was  born, 

And  by  his  countenance  repay 

*rhe  favor  of  the  loving  Day, — 

Has  disappeared  from  the  Day's  eye; 

Far  and  wide  she  cannot  find  him; 

My  hopes  pursue,  they  cannot  bind  him. 

Returned  this  day,  the  south-wind  searches, 

And  finds  young  pines  and  budding  birches; 

But  finds  not  the  budding  man; 

Nature,  who  lost,  cannot  remake  him; 

Fate  let  him  fall,  Fate  can't  retake  him; 

Nature,  Fate,  men,  him  seek  in  vain. 


482  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

And  whither  now,  my  truant  wise  and  sweet, 

0,  whither  tend  thy  feet  ? 

I  had  the  right,  few  days  ago, 

Thy  steps  to  watch,  thy  place  to  know; 

How  have  I  forfeited  the  right? 

Hast  thou  forgot  me  in  a  new  delight? 

I  hearken  for  thy  household  cheer, 

0  eloquent  child! 

Whose  voice,  an  equal  messenger, 

Conveyed  thy  meaning  mild. 

What  though  the  pains  and  joys 

Whereof  it  spoke  were  toys 

Fitting  his  age  and  ken, 

Yet  fairest  dames  and  bearded  men, 

Who  heard  the  sweet  request, 

So  gentle,  wise,  and  grave, 

Bended  with  joy  to  his  behest, 

And  let  the  world's  affairs  go  by, 

Awhile  to  share  his  cordial  game, 

Or  mend  his  wicker  wagon-frame, 

Still  plotting  how  their  hungry  ear 

That  winsome  voice  again  might  hear; 

For  his  lips  could  well  pronounce 

Words  that  were  persuasions. 

Gentlest  guardians  marked  serene 
His  early  hope,  his  liberal  mien; 
Took  counsel  from  his  guiding  eyes 
To  make  this  wisdom  earthly  wise. 
Ah,  vainly  do  these  eyes  recall 
The  school-march,  each  day's  festival, 
When  every  morn  my  bosom  glowed 
To  watch  the  convoy  on  the  road; 
The  babe  in  willow  wagon  closed, 
With  rolling  eyes  and  face  composed; 
With  children  forward  and  behind, 
Like  Cupids  studiously  inclined; 
And  he  the  chieftain  paced  beside, 
The  center  of  the  troop  allied, 


POEMS   OF   EMERSON  483 

With  sunny  face  of  sweet  repose, 

To  guard  the  babe  from  fancied  foes. 

The  little  captain  innocent 

Took  the  eye  with  him  as  he  went; 

Each  village  senior  paused  to  scan 

And  speak  the  lovely  caravan. 

From  the  window  I  look  out 

To  mark  thy  beautiful  parade, 

Stately  marching  in  cap  and  coat 

To  some  tune  by  fairies  played;  — 

A  music  heard  by  thee  alone 

To  works  as  noble  led  thee  on. 

Now  Love  and  Pride,  alas !  in  vain, 

Up  and  down  their  glances  strain. 

The  painted  sled  stands  where  it  stood; 

The  kennel  by  the  corded  wood; 

The  gathered  sticks  to  stanch  the  wall 

Of  the  snow-tower,  when  snow  should  fall; 

The  ominous  hole  he  dug  in  the  sand, 

And  childhood's  castles  built  or  planned; 

His  daily  haunts  I  well  discern, — 

The  poultry-yard,  the  shed,  the  barn, — 

And  every  inch  of  garden  ground 

Paced  by  the  blessed  feet  around, 

From  the  roadside  to  the  brook 

Whereinto  he  loved  to  look. 

Step  the  meek  birds  where  erst  they  ranged; 

The  wintry  garden  lies  unchanged; 

The  brook  into  the  stream  runs  on; 

But  the  deep-eyed  boy  is  gone. 

On  that  shaded  day, 

Dark  with  more  clouds  than  tempests  are, 

When  thou  didst  yield  thy  innocent  breath 

In  birdlike  hearings  unto  death, 

Night  came,  and  Nature  had  not  thee ; 

I  said,  "We  are  mates  in  misery." 

The  morrow  dawned  with  needless  glow; 

Each  snowbird  chirped,  each  fowl  must  crow; 


484  POEMS   OF   EMERSON 

Each  tramper  started;   but  the  feet 

Of  the  most  beautiful  and  sweet 

Of  human  youth  had  left  the  hill 

And  garden, — they  were  bound  and  still. 

There's  not  a  sparrow  or  a  wren, 

There's  not  a  blade  of  autumn  grain, 

Which  the  four  seasons  do  not  tend, 

And  tides  of  life  and  increase  lend; 

And  every  chick  of  every  bird, 

And  weed  and  rock-moss  is  preferred. 

O  ostrich-like  f orgetf ulness ! 

0  loss  of  larger  in  the  less! 

Was  there  no  star  that  could  be  sent, 

No  watcher  in  the  firmament, 

No  angel  from  the  countless  host 

That  loiters  round  the  crystal  coast, 

Could  stoop  to  heal  that  only  child, 

Nature's  sweet  marvel  undefiled, 

And  keep  the  blossom  of  the  earth, 

Which  all  her  harvests  were  not  worth? 

Not  mine, — I  never  called  thee  mine, 

But  Nature's  heir, — if  I  repine, 

And  seeing  rashly  torn  and  moved 

Not  what  I  made,  but  what  I  loved, 

Grow  early  old  with  grief  that  thou 

Must  to  the  wastes  of  Nature  go, — 

'Tis  because  a  general  hope 

Was  quenched,  and  all  must  doubt  and  grope. 

For  flattering  planets  seemed  to  say 

This  child  should  ills  of  ages  stay, 

By  wondrous  tongue,  and  guided  pen, 

Bring  the  flown  Muses  back  to  men. 

Perchance  not  he  but  Nature  ailed, 

The  world  and  not  the  infant  failed. 

It  was  not  ripe  yet  to  sustain 

A  genius  of  so  fine  a  strain, 

Who  gazed  upon  the  sun  and  moon 

As  if  he  came  unto  his  own, 

And,  pregnant  with  his  grander  thought, 


POEMS   OF   EMERSON  485 

Brought  the  old  order  into  doubt. 
His  beauty  once  their  beauty  tried; 
They  could  not  feed  him,  and  he  died, 
And  wandered  backward  as  in  scorn, 
To  wait  an  aeon  to  be  born. 

Ill  day  which  made  this  beauty  waste, 
Plight  broken,  this  high  face  defaced! 
Some  went  and  came  about  the  dead; 
And  some  in  books  of  solace  read; 
Some  to  their  friends  the  tidings  say; 
Some  went  to  write,  some  went  to  pray; 
One  tarried  here,  there  hurried  one; 
But  their  heart  abode  with  none. 
Covetous  death  bereaved  us  all, 
To  aggrandize  one  funeral. 
The  eager  fate  which  carried  thee 
Took  the  largest  part  of  me: 
For  this  losing  is  true  dying; 
This  is  lordly  man's  down-lying, 
This  his  slow  but  sure  reclining, 
Star  by  star  his  world  resigning. 

0  child  of  paradise, 

Boy  who  made  dear  his  father's  home, 

In  whose  deep  eyes 

Men  read  the  welfare  of  the  times  to  come, 

1  am  too  much  bereft. 

The  world  dishonored  thou  hast  left. 
O  truth's  and  nature's  costty  lie! 
0  trusted  broken  prophecy! 
O  richest  fortune  sourly  crossed! 
Born  for  the  future,  to  the  future  lost! 

The  deep  Heart  answered,  "Weepest  thou? 

Worthier  cause  for  passion  wild 

If  I  had  not  taken  the  child. 

And  deemest  thou  as  those  who  pore, 

With  aged  eyes,  short  way  before, — 


486  POEMb   OF  EMERSON 

Think'st  Beauty  vanished  from  the  coast, 

Of  matter,  and  thy  darling  lost? 

Taught  he  not  thee — the  man  of  eld, 

Whose  eyes  within  his  eyes  beheld 

Heaven's  numerous  hierarchy  span 

The  mystic  gulf  from  God  to  man? 

To  be  alone  wilt  thou  begin 

When  worlds  of  lovers  hem  thee  in? 

To-morrow  when  the  masks  shall  fall 

That  dizen  Nature's  carnival, 

The  pure  shall  see  by  their  own  will, 

Which  overflowing  Love  shall  fill, 

'Tis  not  within  the  force  of  fate 

The  fate-conjoined  to  separate. 

But  thou,  my  votary,  weepest  thou? 

I  gave  thee  sight — where  is  it  now? 

I  taught  thy  heart  beyond  the  reach 

Of  ritual,  bible,  or  of  speech; 

Wrote  in  thy  mind's  transparent  table, 

As  far  as  the  incommunicable; 

Taught  thee  each  private  sign  to  raise, 

Lit  by  the  supersolar  blaze. 

Past  utterance,  and  past  belief, 

And  past  the  blasphemy  of  grief, 

The  mysteries  of  Nature's  heart; 

And  though  no  Muse  can  these  impart, 

Throb  thine  with  Nature's  throbbing  breast, 

And  all  is  clear  from  east  to  west. 

"I  came  to  thee  as  to  a  friend; 
Dearest,  to  thee  I  did  not  send 
Tutors,  but  a  joyful  eye, 
Innocence  that  matched  the  sky, 
Lovely  locks,  a  form  of  wonder, 
Laughter  rich  as  woodland  thunder, 
That  thou  might 'st  entertain  apart 
The  richest  flowering  of  all  art: 
And,  as  the  great  all-loving  Day 
Through  smallest  chambers  takes  its  way, 


POEMS   OF   EMERSON  487 

That  thou  might'st  break  thy  daily  bread 
With  prophet,  savior,  and  head; 
That  thou  might'st  cherish  for  thine  own 
The  riches  of  sweet  Mary's  Son, 
Boy-Rabbi,  Israel's   paragon. 

And  thoughtest  thou  such  guest 

Would  in  thy  hall  take  up  his  rest? 

Would  rushing  life  forget  her  laws, 

Fate's  glowing  revolution  pause? 

High  omens  ask  diviner  guess; 

Not  to  be  conned  to  tediousness. 

And  know  my  higher  gifts  unbind 

The  zone  that  girds  the  incarnate  mind. 

When  the  scanty  shores  are  full 

With  Thought's  perilous,  whirling  pool; 

When  frail  Nature  can  no  more, 

Then  the  Spirit  strikes  the  hour: 

My  servant  Death,  with  solving  rite, 

Pours  finite  into  infinite. 

"Wilt  thou  freeze  love's  tidal  flow, 

Whose  streams  through  nature  circling  go? 

Nail  the  wild  star  to  its  track 

On  the  half-climbed  zodiac? 

Light  is  light  which  radiates, 

Blood  is  blood  which  circulates, 

Life  is  life  which  generates, 

And  many-seeming  life  is  one, — 

Wilt  thou  transfix  and  make  it  none? 

Its  onward  force  too  starkly  pent 

In  figure,  bone,  and  lineament  ? 

Wilt  thou,  uncalled,  interrogate, 

Talker!  the  unreplying  Fate? 

Nor  see  the  genius  of  the  whole 

Ascendant  in  the  private  soul, 

Beckon  it  when  to  go  and  come, 

Self-announced  its  hour  of  doom? 

Fair  the  soul's  recess  and  shrine, 


488  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

Magic-built  to  last  a  season; 

Masterpiece  of  love  benign, 

Fairer  that  expansive  reason 

Whose  omen  'tis,  and  sign. 

Wilt  thou  not  ope  thy  heart  to  know 

What   rainbows   teach,   and   sunsets  show? 

Verdict  which  accumulates 

From  lengthening  scroll  of  human  fates, 

Voice  of  earth  to  earth  returned, 

Prayers  of  saints  that  inly  burned, — 

Saying,  What  is  excellent, 

As  God  lives,  is  permanent; 

Hearts  are  dust,  heart's  loves  remain; 

Heart's  love  will  meet  thee  again. 

Revere  the  Maker;  fetch  thine  eye 

to  his  style,  and  manners  of  the  sky. 
Not  of  adamant  and  gold 
Built  he  heaven  stark  and  cold ; 
No,  but  a  nest  of  bending  reeds, 
Flowering  grass,  and  scented  weeds; 
Or  like  a  traveller's  fleeing  tent, 
Or  bow  above  the  tempest  bent; 
Built  of  tears  and  sacred  flames, 
And  virtue  reaching  to  its  aims; 
Built  of  furtherance  and  pursuing, 
Not  of  spent  deeds,  but  of  doing. 
Silent  rushes  the  swift  Lord 
Through  ruined  systems  still  restored, 
Broadsowing,  bleak,  and  void  to  bless, 
Plants   with  worlds   the  wilderness; 
Waters  with  tears  of  ancient  sorrow 
Apples  of  Eden  ripe  to-morrow. 
House  and  tenant  go  to  ground, 
Lost  in  God,  in  Godhead  found. 


POEMS   OF   EMERSON  489 


ODE   TO   BEAUTY 

WHO  gave  thee,  0  Beauty, 
The  keys  of  this  breast, — 
Too  credulous  lover 
Of  blest   and  unblest? 
Say,  when  in  lapsed  ages 
Thee  knew  I  of  old? 
Or  what  was  the  service 
For  which  I  was  sold? 
When  first  my  eyes  saw  thee, 
I  found  me  thy  thrall, 
By  magical  drawings, 
Sweet  tyrant  of  all! 
I  drr   k  at  thy  fountain 
False  waters  of  thirst; 
Thou  intimate  stranger, 
Thou  latest  and  first! 
Thy  dangerous  glances 
Make  women  of  men; 
New-borr  we  are  melting 
Into  nature  again. 

Lavish,  lavish  promiser, 
Nigh  persuading  gods  to  err! 
Guest  of  million  painted  forms, 
Which  in  turn  thy  glory  warms! 
The  frailest  leaf,  the  mossy  bark, 
The  acorn's  cup,  the  raindrop's  arc, 
The  swinging  spider's  silver  line, 
The  ruby  of  the  drop  of  wine, 
The  shining  pebble  of  the  pond, 
Thou  inscribest  with  a  bond, 
In  thy  momentary  play, 
Would  bankrupt  nature  to  repay. 
Ah,  what  avails  it 
To  hide  or  to  shun 
Whom  the  Infinite  One 


490  POEMS   OF   EMERSON 

Hath  granted  his  throne? 

The  heaven  high  over 

Is  the  deep's  lover; 

The  sun  and  sea, 

Informed  by  thee, 

Before  me  run, 

And  draw  me  on, 

Yet  fly  me  still, 

As  Fate  refuses 

To  me  the  heart  Fate  for  me  chooses. 

Is  it  that  my  opulent  soul 

Was  mingled  from  the  generous  whole; 

Sea-valleys  and  the  deep  of  skies 

Furnish  several   supplies; 

And  the  sands  whereof  I'm  made 

Draw  me  to  them,  self-betrayed? 

I  turn  the  proud  portfolios 

Which  hold  the  grand  designs 

Of  Salvator,  of  Guercino, 

And   Piranesi's   lines. 

I  hear  the  lofty  paeans 

Of  the  masters  of  the  shell, 

Who  heard  the  starry  music 

And  recount  the  numbers  well; 

Olympian  bards  who  sung 

Divine  Ideas  below, 

Which  always  find  us  young, 

And  always  keep  us  so. 

Oft,  in  streets  or  humblest  places, 

I  detect  far-wandered  graces, 

Which,  from  Eden  wide  astray, 

In  lowly  homes  have  lost  their  way. 

Thee  gliding  through  the  sea  of  form, 

Like  the  lightning  through  the  storm, 

Somewhat  not  to  be  possessed, 

Somewhat  not  to  be  caressed, 

No  feet  so  fleet  could  ever  find, 

No  perfect  form  could  ever  bind. 

Thou  eternal  fugitive, 


POEMS   OF   EMERSON  491 

Hovering  over  all  that  live, 
Quick  and  skilful  to  inspire 
Sweet,  extravagant  desire, 
Starry  space  and  lily-bell 
Filling  with  thy  roseate  smell, 
Wilt  not  give  the  lips  to  taste 
Of  the  nectar  which  thou  hast. 

All  that's  good  and  great  with  thee 

Works  in  close  conspiracy; 

Thou  hast  bribed  the  dark  and  lonely 

To  report  thy  features  only, 

And  the  cold  and  purple  morning 

Itself  with  thoughts  of  thee  adorning; 

The  leafy  dell,  the  city  mart, 

Equal  trophies  of  thine  art; 

E'en  the  flowing  azure  air 

Thou  hast  touched  for  my  despair; 

And  if  I  languish  into  dreams, 

Again  I  meet  the  ardent  beams. 

Queen  of  things!  I  dare  not  die 

In  Being's  deeps  past  ear  and  eye; 

Lest  there  I  find  the  same  deceiver, 

And  be  the  sport  of  Fate  forever. 

Dread  Power,  but  dear!  if  God  thou  be, 

Unmake  me  quite,  or  give  thyself  to  me! 

GIVE   ALL   TO   LOVE 

GIVE  all  to  love; 

Obey  thy  heart; 

Friends,  kindred,  days, 

Estate,  good-fame, 

Plans,  credit,  and  the  Muse, — 

Nothing  refuse. 

'Tis  a  brave  master; 
Let  it  have  scope: 
Follow  it  utterly, 
Hope  beyond  hope: 


492  POEMS   OF   EMERSON 

High  and  more  high 
It  dives  into  noon, 
With  wing  unspent, 
Untold  intent; 
But  it  is  a  god, 
Knows  its  own  path, 
And  the  outlets  of  the  sky. 
It  was  not  for  the  mean; 
It  requireth  courage  stout, 
Souls  above  doubt, 
Valor  unbending; 
Such  'twill  reward, — 
They  shall   return 
More  than  they  were, 
And  ever  ascending 

Leave  all  for  love; 

Yet,  hear  me,  yet, 

One  word  more  thy  heart  behoved, 

One  pulse  more  of  firm  endeavor, — 

Keep  thee  to-day, 

To-morrow,   forever, 

Free  as  an  Arab 

Of  thy  beloved. 

Cling  with  life  to  the  maid; 

But  when  the  surprise, 

First    vague   shadow    of   surmise 

Flits  across  her  bosom  young 

Of  a  joy  apart  from  thee, 

Free  be  she,  fancy-free; 

Nor  thou  detain  her  vesture's  hem, 

Nor  the  palest  rose  she  flung 

From  her  summer  diadem. 

Though  thou  loved  her  as  thyself, 

As  a  self  of  purer  clay, 

Though  her  parting  dims  the  day, 

Stealing  grace  from  all  alive; 

Heartily  know, 

When  half-gods  go, 

The  gods  arrive. 


POEMS   OF   EMERSON  493 

INITIAL,  DAEMONIC,   AND    CELESTIAL  LOVE 

I 

THE   INITIAL   LOVE 

VENUS,  when  her  son  was  lost, 

Cried  him  up  and  down  the  coast, 

In  hamlets,  palaces,  and  parks, 

And  told  the  truant  by  his  marks,— 

Golden  curls,  and  quiver,  and  bow. 

This  befell  long  ago. 

Time  and  tide  are  strangely  changed, 

Men  and  manners  much  deranged: 

None  will  now  find  Cupid  latent 

By  this  foolish  antique  patent. 

He  came  late  along  the  waste, 

Shod  like  a  traveller  for  haste; 

With  malice  dared  me  to  proclaim  him, 

That  the  maids  and  boys  might  name  him. 

Boy  no  more,  he  wears  all  coats, 

Frocks,  and  blouses,  capes,   capotes; 

He  bears  no  bow,  or  quiver,  or  wand, 

Nor  chaplet  on  his  head  or  hand. 

Leave  his  weeds  and  heed  his  eyes, — 

All  the  rest  he  can  disguise. 

In  the  pit  of  his  eye's  a  spark 

Would  bring  back  day  if  it  were  dark; 

And,  if  I  tell  you  all  my  thought, 

Though  I  comprehend  it  not, 

In  those  unfathomable  orbs 

Every  function  he  absorbs. 

He  doth  eat,  and  drink,  and  fish,  and  shoot, 

And  write,  and  reason,  and  compute, 

And  ride,  and  run,  and  have,  and  hold, 

And  whine,  and  flatter,  and  regret, 

And  kiss,  and  couple,  and  beget, 


494  POEMS   OF   EMERSON 

By  those  roving  eyeballs  bold. 

Undaunted  are  their  courages, 

Right  Cossacks  in  their  forages; 

Fleeter  they  than  any  creature, — 

They  are  his  steeds,  and  not  his  feature; 

Inquisitive,  and  fierce,  and  fasting, 

Restless,  predatory,  hasting; 

And  they  pounce  on  other  eyes 

As  lions  on  their  prey; 

And  round  their  circles  is  writ, 

Plainer  than  the  day, 

Underneath,  within,  above, — 

Love — love — love — love. 

He  lives  in  his  eyes; 

There  doth  digest,  and  work,  and  spin, 

And  buy,  and  sell,  and  lose,  and  win; 

He  rolls  them  with  delighted  motion, 

Joy-tides  swell  their  mimic  ocean. 

Yet  holds  he  them  with  tautest  rein. 

That  they  may  seize  and  entertain 

The  glance  that  to  their  glance  opposes, 

Like  fiery  honey  sucked  from  roses. 

He  palmistry  can  understand, 

Imbibing  virtue  by  his  hand 

As  if  it  were  a  living  root; 

The  pulse  of  hands  will  make  him  mute; 

With  all  his  force  he  gathers  balms 

Into  those  wise,  thrilling  palms. 

Cupid  is  a  casuist, 

A  mystic,  and  a  cabalist, — 

Can  your  lurking  thought  surprise, 

And  interpret  your  device, 

He  is  versed  in  occult  science, 

In  magic,  and  in  clairvoyance; 

Oft  he  keeps  his  fine  ear  strained, 

And  Reason  on  her  tiptoe  pained 

For  aery  intelligence, 

And  for  strange  coincidence. 


POEMS   OF   EMERSON  495 

But  it  touches  his  quick  heart 

When  Fate  by  omens  takes  his  part, 

And  chance-dropped  hints  from  Nature's  sphere 

Deeply  soothe  his  anxious  ear. 

Heralds  high  before  him  run; 

He  has  ushers  many  a  one; 

He  spreads  his  welcome  where  he  goes, 

And  touches  all  things  with  his  rose. 

All  things  wait  for  and  divine  him, — 

How  shall  I  dare  to  malign  him, 

Or  accuse  the  god  of  sport? 

I  must  end  my  true  report, 

Painting  him  from  head  to  foot, 

In  as  far  as  I  took  note, 

Trusting  well  the  matchless  power 

Of  this  young-eyed  emperor 

Will  clear  his  fame  from  every  cloud, 

With  the  bards  and  with  the  crowd. 

He  is  wilful,  mutable, 

Shy,  untamed,  inscrutable, 

Swifter-fashioned  than  the  fairies, 

Substance  mixed  of  pure  contraries; 

His  vice  some  elder  virtue's  token, 

And  his  good  is  evil-spoken. 

Failing  sometimes  of  his  own, 

He  is  headstrong  and  alone; 

He  affects  the  wood  and  wild, 

Like  a  flower-hunting  child; 

Buries  himself  in  summer  waves, 

In  trees,  with  beasts,  in  mines,  and  caves; 

Loves  nature  like  a  horned  cow, 

Bird,  or  deer,  or  caribou. 

Shun  him,  nymphs,  on  the  fleet  horses! 
He  has  a  total  world  of  wit; 
0  how  wise  are  his  discourses! 
But  he  is  the  arch-hypocrite, 


496  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

And,  through  all  science  and  all  art, 

Seeks  alone  his  counterpart. 

He  is  a  Pundit  of  the  East, 

He  is  an  augur  and  a  priest, 

And  his  soul  will  melt  in  prayer, 

But  word  and  wisdom  is  a  snare; 

Corrupted  by  the  present  toy 

He  follows  joy,  and  only  joy. 

There  is  no  mask  but  he  will  wear; 

He  invented  oaths  to  swear; 

He  paints,  he  carves,  he  chants,  he  prays, 

And  holds  all  stars  in  his  embrace, 

Godlike, — but  'tis  for  his  fine  pelf, 

The  social  quintessence  of  self. 

Well  said  I  he  is  hypocrite, 

And  folly  the  end  of  his  subtle  wit! 

He  takes  a  sovran  privilege 

Not  allowed  to  any  liege; 

For  he  does  go  behind  all  law, 

And  right  into  himself  does  draw; 

For  he  is  sovereignly  allied, — 

Heaven's  oldest  blood  flows  in  his  side,— • 

And  interchangeably  at  one 

With  every  king  on  every  throne, 

That  no  god  dare  say  him  nay, 

Or  see  the  fault,  or  seen  betray: 

He  has  the  Muses  by  the  heart, 

And  the  Parcae  all  are  of  his  part. 

His  many  signs  cannot  be  told; 

He  has  not  one  mode,  but  manifold, 

Many   fashions   and   addresses, 

Piques,  reproaches,  hurts,  caresses, 

Arguments,  lore,  poetry, 

Action,  service,  badinage; 

He  will  preach  like  a  friar, 

And  jump  like  Harlequin; 

He  will  read  like  a  crier, 

And  fight  like  a  Paladin. 

Boundless  is  his  memory; 


POEMS   OF  EMERSON  497 

Plans  immense  his  term  prolong; 

He  is  not  of  counted  age, 

Meaning  always  to  be  young. 

And  his  wish  is  intimacy, 

Intimater  intimacy, 

And  a  stricter  privacy; 

The  impossible  shall  yet  be  done, 

And,  being  two,  shall  still  be  one. 

As  the  wave  breaks  to  foam  on  shelves, 

Then  runs  into  a  wave  again, 

So  lovers  melt  their  sundered  selves, 

Yet  melted  would  be  twain. 


II 

THE  DAEMONIC  AND  THE  CELESTIAL  LOVE 

MAN  was  made  of  social  earth, 

Child  and  brother  from  his  birth, 

Tethered  by  a  liquid  cord 

Of  blood  through  veins  of  kindred  poured. 

Next  his  heart  the  fireside  band 

Of  mother,  father,  sister,  stand: 

Names  from  awful  childhood  heard 

Throbs  of  a  wild  religion  stirred;  — 

Virtue,  to  love,  to  hate  them,  vice; 

Till  dangerous  Beauty  came,  at  last, 

Till  Beauty  came  to  snap  all  ties; 

The  maid,  abolishing  the  past, 

With  lotus  wine  obliterates 

Dear  memory's  stone-incarved  traits, 

And,  by  herself,  supplants  alone 

Friends  year  by  year  more  inly  known. 

When  her  calm  eyes  opened  bright, 

All  were  foreign  in  their  light. 

It  was  ever  the  self-same  tale, 

The  first  experience  will  not  fail; 

Only  two  in  the  garden  walked, 

And  with  snake  and  seraph  talked. 


498  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

But  God  said, 

"I  will  have  a  purer  gift; 

There  is  smoke  in  the  flame; 

New  flowerets  bring,  new  prayers  uplift, 

And  love  without  a  name. 

Fond  children,  ye  desire 

To  please  each  other  well; 

Another  round,  a  higher, 

Ye  shall  climb  on  the  heavenly  stair, 

And  selfish  preference  forbear; 

And  in  right  deserving, 

And  without  a  swerving 

Each  from  your  proper  state, 

Weave  roses  for  your  mate. 


deep  are  loving  eyes, 
Flowed  with  naphtha  fiery  sweet; 
And  the  point  is  paradise, 
Where  their  glances  meet: 
Their  reach  shall  yet  be  more  profound, 
And  a  vision  without  bound: 
The  axis  of  those  eyes  sun-clear 
Be  the  axis  of  the  sphere: 
So  shall  the  lights  ye  pour  amain 
Go,  without  check  or  intervals, 
Through  from  the  empyrean  walls 
Unto  the  same  again." 

Close,  close  to  men, 

Like  undulating  layer  of  air, 

Right  above  their  heads, 

The  potent  plain  of  Daemons  spreads. 

Stands  to  each  human  soul  its  own, 

For  watch  and  ward,  and  furtherance, 

In  the  snares  of  Nature's  dance; 

And  the  lustre  and  the  grace 

To  fascinate  each  youthful  heart, 

Beaming  from  its  counterpart, 


POEMS  OF  EMERSON  499 

Translucent  through  the  mortal  covers, 

Is  the  Daemon's  form  and  face. 

To  and  fro  the  Genius  hies, — 

A  gleam  which  plays  and  hovers 

Over  the  maiden's  head, 

And  dips  sometimes  as  low  as  to  her  eyes. 

Unknown,  albeit  lying  near, 

To  men,  the  path  of  the  Daemon  sphere; 

And  they  that  swiftly  come  and  go 

Leave  no  track  on  the  heavenly  snow. 

Sometimes  the  airy  synod  bends, 

And  the  mighty  choir  descends, 

And  the  brains  of  men  thenceforth, 

In  crowded  and  in  still  resorts, 

Teem  with  unwonted  thoughts: 

As,  when  a  shower  of  meteors 

Cross  the  orbit  of  the  earth, 

And,  lit  by  fringent  air, 

Blaze  near  and  far, 

Mortals  deem  the  planets  bright 

Have  slipped  their  sacred  bars, 

And  the  lone  seaman  all  the  night 

Sails,  astonished,  amid  stars. 

Beauty  of  a  richer  vein, 

Graces  of  a  subtler  strain, 

Unto  men  these  moonmen  lend, 

And  our  shrinking  sky  extend, 

So  is  man's  narrow  path 

By  strength  and  terror  skirted; 

Also  (from  the  song  the  wrath 

Of  the  Genii  be  averted! 

The  Muse  the  truth  uncolored  speaking) 

The  Daemons  are  self-seeking: 

Their  fierce  and  limitary  will 

Draws  men  to  their  likeness  still. 

The  erring  painter  made  Love  blind,— 

Highest  Love  who  shines  on  all; 

Him,  radiant,  sharpest-sighted  god, 


600  POEMS   OF   EMERSON 

None  can  bewilder; 

Whose  eyes  pierce 

The  universe, 

Path-finder,  road-builder, 

Mediator,  royal  giver; 

Rightly  seeing,  rightly  seen, 

Of  joyful  and  transparent  mien. 

Tis  a  sparkle  passing 

From  each  to  each,  from  thee  to  me, 

To  and  fro  perpetually; 

Sharing  all,  daring  all, 

Levelling,  displacing 

Each  obstruction,  it  unites 

Equals  remote,  and  seeming  opposites. 

And  ever  and  for  ever  Love 

Delights  to  build  a  road: 

Unheeded  Danger  near  him  strides, 

Love  laughs,  and  on  a  lion  rides. 

But  Cupid  wears  another  face, 

Born  into  Daemons  less  divine: 

His   roses   bleach   apace, 

His  nectar  smacks  of  wine. 

The  Daemon  ever  builds  a  wall, 

Himself  encloses  and  includes, 

Solitude  in  solitudes: 

In  like  sort  his  love  doth  fall. 

He  is  an  oligarch; 

He  prizes  wonder,  fame,  and  mark; 

He  loveth  crowns; 

He  scorneth  drones; 

He  doth  elect 

The  beautiful  and  fortunate, 

And  the  sons  of  intellect, 

And  the  souls  of  ample  fate, 

Who  the  Future's  gates  unbar,— 

Minions  of  the  Morning  Star. 

In  his  prowess  he  exults, 

And  the  multitude  insults. 


POEMS   OF  EMERSON  501 

His  impatient  looks  devour 

Oft  the  humble  and  the  poor; 

And,  seeing  his  eye  glare, 

They  drop  their  few  pale  flowers, 

Gathered  with  hope  to  please, 

Along  the  mountain  towers, — 

Lose  courage,  and  despair. 

He  will  never  be  gainsaid, — 

Pitiless,  will  not  be  stayed; 

His  hot  tyranny 

Burns  up  every  other  tie. 

Therefore  comes  an  hour  from  Jove 

Which  his  ruthless  will  defies, 

And  the  dogs  of  Fate  unties. 

Shiver  the  palaces  of  glass; 

Shrivel  the  rainbow-colored  walls, 

Where  in  bright  Art  each  god  and  sibyl  dwelt, 

Secure  as  in  the  zodiac's  belt; 

And  the  galleries  and  halls, 

Wherein  every  siren  sung, 

Like  a  meteor  pass. 

For  this  fortune  wanted  root 

In  the  core  of  God's  abysm, — 

Was  a  weed  of  self  and  schism; 

And  ever  the  Daemonic  Love 

Is  the  ancestor  of  wars, 

And  the  parent  of  remorse. 


Ill 

THE   CELESTIAL  LOVE 

HIGHER  far, 

Upward  into  the  pure  realm, 

Over  sun  and  star, 

Over  the  flickering  Daemon  film, 

Thou  must  mount  for  love; 

Into  vision  where  all  form 


502  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

In  one  only  form  dissolves; 

In  a  region  where  the  wheel, 

On  which  all  beings  ride, 

Visibly  revolves; 

Where  the  starred,   eternal  worm 

Girds  the  world  with  bound  and  term; 

Where  unlike  things  are  like; 

Where  good  and  ill, 

And  joy  and  moan, 

Melt  into  one. 

There  Past,  Present,  Future,  shoot 

Triple  blossoms  from  one  root; 

Substances  at  base  divided 

In  their  summits  are  united; 

There  the  holy  essence  rolls, 

One  through  separated  souls; 

And  the  sunny  Aeon  sleeps 

Folding  Nature  in  its  deeps; 

And  every  fair  and  every  good, 

Known  in  part,  or  known  impure, 

To  men  below, 

In  their  archetypes  endure. 

The  race  of  gods, 

Or  those  we  erring  own, 

Are  shadows  flitting  up  and  down 

In  the  still  abodes. 

The  circles  of  that  sea  are  laws 

Which  publish  and  which  hide  the  cause. 

Pray  for  a  beam 

Out  of  that  sphere, 

Thee  to  guide  and  to  redeem. 

O,  what  a  load 

Of  care  and  toil, 

By  lying  use  bestowed, 

From  his  shoulders  falls  who  sees 

The  true  astronomy, 

The  period  of  peace. 


POEMS   OF   EMERSON  503 

Counsel  which  the  ages  kept 

Shall  the  well-born  soul  accept. 

As  the  overhanging  trees 

Fill  the  lake  with  images, — 

As  garment  draws  the  garment's  hem, 

Men  their  fortunes  bring  with  them. 

By  right  or  wrong, 

Lands  and  goods  go  to  the  strong. 

Property  will  bmtely   draw 

Still  to  the  proprietor; 

Silver  to  silver  creep  and  wind, 

And  kind  to  kind. 

Nor  less  the  eternal  poles 

Of  tendency  distribute  souls. 

There  need  no  vows  to  bind 

Whom  not  each  other  seek,  but  find. 

They  give  and  take  no  pledge  or  oath,—- 

Nature  is  the  bond  of  both: 

No  ^rayer  persuades,  no  flattery  fawns, — 

Their  noble  meanings  are  their  pawns. 

Plain  and  cold  is  their  address, 

Power  have  they  for  tenderness; 

And,  so  thoroughly  is  known 

Each  other's  counsel  by  his  own, 

They  can  parley  without  meeting; 

Need  is  none  of  forms  of  greeting; 

They  can  well  communicate 

In   their   innermost   estate; 

When  each  the  other  shall  avoid, 

Shall  each  by  each  be  most  enjoyed. 

Not  with  scarfs  or  perfumed  gloves 
Do  these  celebrate  their  loves; 
Not  by  jewels,  feasts,  and  savors, 
Not  by  ribbons  or  by  favors, 
But  by  the  sun-spark  on  the  sea, 
And  the  cloud-shadow  on  the  lea, 


504  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

The  soothing  lapse  of  morn  to  mirk, 
And  the  cheerful  round  of  work. 
Their  cords  of  love  so  public  are, 
They  intertwine  the  farthest  star: 
The  throbbing  sea,  the  quaking  earth, 
Yield  sympathy  and  signs  of  mirth; 
Is  none  so  high,  so  mean  is  none, 
But  feels  and  seals  this  union; 
Even  the  fell  Furies  are  appeased, 
The  good  applaud,  the  lost  are  eased. 

Love's  hearts  are  faithful,  but  not  fond, 
Bound  for  the  just,  but  not  beyond; 
Not   glad,  as  the  low-loving  herd, 
Of  self  in  other  still  preferred, 
But  they  have  heartily  designed 
The  benefit  of  broad  mankind. 
And  they  serve  men  austerely, 
After  their  own  genius,  clearly, 
Without  a  false  humility; 
For  this  is  Love's  nobility, — 
Not  to  scatter  bread  and  golcL, 
Goods  and  raiment  bought  and  sold; 
But  to  hold  fast  his  simple  sense, 
And  speak  the  speech  of  innocence, 
And  with  hand  and  body  and  blood, 
To  make  his  bosom-counsel  good. 
For  he  that  feeds  men  serveth  few; 
He  serves  all  who  dares  be  true. 


THE  APOLOGY 

THINK  me  not  unkind  and  rude 
That  I  walk  alone  in  grove  and  glen; 

I  go  to  the  god  of  the  wood 
To  fetch  his  word  to  men. 


POEMS   OF  EMERSON  505 

Tax  not  my  sloth  that  I 

Fold  my  arms  beside  the  brook; 
Each  cloud  that  floated  in  the  sky 

Writes  a  letter  in  my  book. 

Chide  me  not,  laborious  band, 

For  idle  flowers  I  brought; 
Every  aster  in  my  hand 

Goes  home  loaded  with  a  thought. 

There  was  never  mystery 

But  'tis  figured  in  the  flowers; 
Was  never  secret  history 

But  birds  tell  it  in  the  bowers. 

One  harvest  from  thy  field 

Homeward  brought  the  oxen  strong; 
A  second  crop  thine  acres  yield, 

Which  I  gather  in  a  song. 


MERLIN 
I 

THY  trivial  harp  will  never  please 

Or  fill  my  craving  ear; 

Its  chords  should  ring  as  blows  the  breeze, 

Free,  peremptory,  clear. 

No  jingling  serenader's  art, 

Nor  tinkle  of  piano  strings, 

Can  make  the  wild  blood  start 

In  its  mystic  springs. 

The  kingly  bard 

Must  smite  the  chords  rudely  and  hard, 

As  with  hammer  or  with  mace; 

That   they   may   render    back 

Artful  thunder,  which  conveys 

Secrets  of  the  solar  track, 


606  POEMS   OF   EMERSON 

Sparks  of  the  supersolar  blaze. 

Merlin's  blows  are  strokes  of  fate, 

Chiming  with  the  forest  tone, 

When  boughs  buffet  boughs  in  the  wood; 

Chiming  with  the  gasp  and  moan 

Of  the  ice-imprisoned  flood; 

With  the  pulse  of  manly  hearts; 

With  the  voice  of  orators; 

With  the  din  of  city  arts; 

With  the  cannonade  of  wars; 

With  the  marches  of  the  brave; 

And  prayers  of  might  from  martyr's  cave. 

Great  is  the  art, 

Great  be  the  manners,  of  the  bard. 

He  shall  not  his  brain  encumber 

With  the  coil  of  rhythm  and  number; 

But,  leaving  rule  and  pale  forethought, 

He  shall  aye   climb 

For  his  rhyme. 

"Pass  in,  pass  in,"  the  angels  say, 

"In  to  the  upper  doors, 

Nor  count  compartments  of  the  floors, 

But  mount  to  paradise 

By  the  stairway  of  surprise." 

Blameless  master  of  the  games, 
King  of  sport  that  never  shames, 
He   shall   daily   joy   dispense 
Hid  in  song's  sweet  influence. 
Things  more  cheerly  live  and  go, 
What  time  the  subtle  mind 
Sings  aloud  the  tune  whereto 
Their  pulses  beat, 
And  march  their  feet, 
And  their  members  are  combined. 

By  Sybarites  beguiled, 
He  shall  no  task  decline; 
Merlin's  mighty  line 


POEMS   OF   EMERSON  507 

Extremes  of  nature  reconciled, — 
Bereaved  a  tyrant  of  his  will, 
And  made  the  lion  mild. 
Songs  can  the  tempest  still, 
Scattered  on  the  stormy  air, 
Mould  the  year  to  fair  increase 
And  bring  in  poetic  peace. 

He  shall  not  seek  to  weave, 

In  weak,  unhappy  times, 

Efficacious  rhymes; 

Wait  his  returning  strength. 

Bird,  that  from  the  nadir's  floor 

To  the  zenith's  top  can  soar, 

The  soaring  orbit  of  the  muse  exceeds  that  journey's 

length. 

Nor  profane  affect  to  hit 
Or  compass  that,  by  meddling  wit, 
Which  only  the  propitious  mind 
Publishes  when  'tis  inclined. 
There  are  open  hours 
When  the  God's  will  sallies  free, 
And  the  dull  idiot  might  see 
The  flowing  fortunes  of  a  thousand  years; — 
Sudden,  at   unawares, 
Self-moved,  fly-to  the  doors, 
Nor  sword  of  angels  could  reveal 
What  they  conceal. 


MERLIN 
II 

THE  rhyme  of  the  poet 
Modulates  the  king's  affairs; 
Balance-loving  Nature 
Made  all  things  in  pairs. 


508  POEMS   OF   EMERSON 

To  every  foot  its  antipode; 

Each  color  with  its  counter  glowed; 

To  every  tone  beat  answering  tones, 

Higher  or  graver; 

Flavor  gladly  blends  with  flavor; 

Leaf  answers  leaf  upon  the  bough; 

And  match  the  paired  cotyledons. 

Hands  to  hands,  and  feet  to  feet, 

In  one  body  grooms  and  brides; 

Eldest  rite,  two  married  sides 

In  every  mortal  meet. 

Light's  far  furnace  shines, 

Smelting  balls  and  bars, 

Forging  double  stars, 

Glittering  twins  and  trines. 

The  animals  are  sick  with  love, 

Lovesick  with  rhyme; 

Each  with  all  propitious  time 

Into  chorus  wove. 

Like  the  dancer's  ordered  band, 

Thoughts  come  also  hand  in  hand; 

In  equal  couples  mated, 

Or  else  alternated; 

Adding  by  their  mutual  gage, 

One  to  other,  health  and  age. 

Solitary  fancies  go 

Short-lived  wandering  to  and  fro, 

Most  like  to  bachelors, 

Or  an  ungiven  maid, 

Not  ancestors, 

With  no  posterity  to  make  the  lie  afraid, 

Or  keep  truth  undecayed. 

Perfect-paired  as  eagle's  wings, 

Justice  is  the  rhyme  of  things; 

Trade  and  counting  use 

The  self-same  tuneful  muse; 

And  Nemesis, 

Who  with  even  matches  odd, 


POEMS   OF  EMERSON  609 

Who  athwart  space  redresses 
The  partial  wrong, 
Fills  the  just  period, 
And  finishes  the  song. 

Subtle  rhymes,  with  ruin  rife, 
Murmur  in  the  house  of  life, 
Sung  by  the  Sisters  as  they  spin; 
In  perfect  time  and  measure  they 
Build  and  unbuild  our  echoing  clay, 
As  the  two  twilights  of  the  day 
Fold  us  music-drunken  in. 


BACCHUS 

BRING  me  wine,  but  wine  which  never  grew 

In  the  belly  of  the  grape, 

Or  grew  on  vine  whose  tap-roots,  reaching  through 

Under  the  Andes  to  the  Cape, 

Suffered  no  savor  of  the  earth  to  scape. 

Let  its  grapes  the  morn  salute 

From  a  nocturnal  root, 

Which   feels   the   acrid   juice 

Of  Styx  and  Erebus; 

And  turns  the  woe  of  Night, 

By  its  own  craft,  to  a  more  rich  delight. 

We  buy  ashes  for  bread; 

We  buy  diluted  wine; 

Give  me  of  the  true, — 

Whose  ample  leaves  and  tendrils  curled 

Among  the  silver  hills  of  heaven, 

Draw  everlasting  dew; 

Wine  of  wine, 

Blood  of  the  world, 

Form  of  forms,  and  mould  of  statures, 


510  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

That  I  intoxicated, 

And  by  the  draught  assimilated, 

May  float  at  pleasure  through  all  natures; 

The  bird-language  rightly  spell, 

And  that  which  roses  say  so  well. 

Wine  that  is  shed 

Like  the  torrents  of  the  sun 

Up  the  horizon  walls, 

Or  like  the  Atlantic  streams,  which  run 

When  the  South  Sea  calls. 

Water  and  bread, 

Food  which  needs  no  transmuting, 

Rainbow-flowering,  wisdom-fruiting 

Wine  which  is  already  man, 

Food  which  teach  and  reason  can. 

Wine  which  Music  is, — 

Music  and  wine  are  one, — 

That  I,  drinking  this, 

Shall  hear  far  Chaos  talk  with  me; 

Kings  unborn  shall  walk  with  me; 

And  the  poor  grass  shall  plot  and  plan 

What  it  will  do  when  it  is  man. 

Quickened  so,  will  I  unlock 

Every  crypt  of  every  rock. 

I  thank  the  joyful  juice 
For  all  I  know;  — 
Winds  of  remembering 
Of  the  ancient  being  blow, 
And  seeming-solid  walls  of  use 
Open  and  flow. 

Pour,  Bacchus!  the  remembering  wine; 
Retrieve  the  loss  of  me  and  mine! 
Vine  for  vine  be  antidote, 
And  the  grape  requite  the  lote! 
Haste  to  cure  the  old  despair, — 


POEMS   OF  EMERSON  511 

Reason  in  Nature's  lotus  drenched, 

The  memory  of  ages  quenched; 

Give  them  again  to  shine; 

Let  wine  repair  what  this  undid; 

And  where  the  infection  slid, 

A  dazzling  memory  revive; 

Refresh  the  faded  tints, 

Recut  the  aged  prints, 

And  write  my  old  adventures  with  the  pen 

Which  on  the  first  day  drew, 

Upon  the  tablets  blue, 

The  dancing  Pleiads  and  eternal  men. 


GRACE 

How  much,  Preventing  God!  how  much  I  owe 
To  the  defences  thou  hast  round  me  set: 
Example,  custom,  fear,  occasion  slow, — 
These  scorned  bondmen  were  my  parapet. 
I  dare  not  peep  over  this  parapet. 
To  gauge  with  glance  the  roaring  gulf  below, 
The  depths  of  sin  to  which  I  had  descended, 
Had  not  these  me  against  myself  defended. 


MEROPS 

WHAT  care  I,  so  they  stand  the  same,- 
Things  of  the  heavenly  mind, — 

How  long  the  power  to  give  them  name 
Tarries  yet  behind? 

Thus  far  to-day  your  favors  reach, 

0  fair,  appeasing  presences! 
Ye  taught  my  lips  a  single  speech 

And  a  thousand  silences. 


512  POEMS   OF  EMERSON 

Space  grants  beyond  his  fated  road 
No  inch  to  the  god  of  day; 

And  copious  language  still  bestowed 
One  word,  no  more,  to  say. 


HYMN 

SUNG    AT    THE    COMPLETION    OF    THE    CONCORD    MONUMENT 

April  19,  1836 

BY  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 

Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 

And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 

To  die,  or  leave  their  children  free, 
Bid  Time  and  Nature  \gently  spare 

The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 

ODE 

INSCRIBED   TO  W.   H.   CHANNINQ 

THOUGH  loath  to  grieve 
The  evil  time's  sole  patriot, 
I  cannot  leave 
My  honeyed  thought 


POEMS   OF  EMERSON  513 

For  the  priest's  cant 
Or  statesman's  rant. 

If  I  refuse 

My  study  for  their  politique, 

Which  at  the  best  is  trick, 

The  angry  Muse 

Puts  confusion  in  my  brain. 

But  who  is  he  that  prates 
Of  the  culture  of  mankind, 
Of  better  arts  and  life? 
Go,  blindworm,  go, 
Behold  the  famous  States 
Harrying  Mexico 
With  rifle  and  with  knife! 

Or  who,  with  accent  bolder, 

Dare  praise   the   freedom-loving  mountaineer? 

I  found  by  thee,  0  rushing  Contoocook ! 

And  in  thy  valleys,  Agiochook! 

The  jackals  of  the  negro-holder. 

The  God  who  made  New  Hampshire 

Taunted  the  lofty  land 

With  little  men;  — 

Small  bat  and  wren 

House  in  the  oak: — 

If  earth-fire  cleave 

The  upheaved  land,  and  bury  the  folk, 

The  Southern  crocodile  would  grieve. 

Virtue  palters;    Right  is  hence; 
Freedom  praised,  but  hid; 
Funeral  eloquence 
Rattles  the  coffin-lid. 

What  boots  thy  zeal, 

O  glowing  friend, 

That  would  indignant  rend 


514  POEMS   OF   EMERSON 

The  Northland  from  the  South? 
Wherefore?  to  what  good  end? 
Boston  Bay  and  Bunker  Hill 
Would  serve  things  still;  — 
Things  are  of  the  snake. 

The  horseman  serves  the  horse, 
The  neatherd  serves  the  neat, 
The  merchant  serves  the  purse, 
The  eater  serves  his  meat; 
'Tis  the  day  of  the  chattel, 
Web  to  weave,  and  corn  to  grind; 
Things  are  in  the  saddle, 
And  ride  mankind. 

There  are  two  laws  discrete, 

Not  reconciled, — 

Law  for  man,  and  law  for  thing: 

The  last  builds  town  and  fleet, 

But  it  runs  wild, 

And  doth  the  man  unking. 

'Tis  fit  the  forest  fall, 
The  steep  be  graded, 
The  mountain  tunnelled, 
The  sand  shaded, 
The  orchard  planted, 
The  glebe  tilled, 
The  prairie  granted, 
The  steamer  built. 

Let  man  serve  law  for  man; 
Live  for  friendship,  live  for  love, 
For  truth's  and  harmony's  behoof; 
The  state  may  follow  how  it  can, 
As  Olympus  follows  Jove. 

Yet  do  not  I  implore 
The  wrinkled  shopman  to  my  sounding  woods, 


POEMS   OF   EMERSON  515 

Nor  bid  the  unwilling  senator 

Ask  votes  of  thrushes  in  the  solitudes. 

Every  one  to  his  chosen  work;  — 

Foolish  hands  may  mix  and  mar; 

Wise  and  sure  the  issues  are. 

Round  they  roll  till  dark  is  light, 

Sex  to  sex,  and  even  to  odd;  — 

The  over-god 

Who  marries  Right  to  Might. 

Who  peoples,  unpeoples, — 

He  who  exterminates 

Races  by  stronger  races, 

Black  by  white  faces, — 

Knows  to  bring  honey 

Out  of  the  lion; 

Grafts  gentlest  scion 

On  pirate  and  Turk. 

The  Cossack  eats  Poland, 

Like  stolen  fruit; 

Her  last  noble  is  ruined, 

Her  last  poet  mute: 

Straight,  into  double  band 

The  victors  divide; 

Half  for  freedom  strike  and  stand;  — 

The  astonished  Muse  finds  thousands  at  her  side. 


FREEDOM 

ONCE  I  wished  I  might  rehearse 

Freedom's  paean  in  my  verse, 

That  the  slave  who  caught  the  strain 

Should  throb  until  he  snapped  his  chain. 

But  the  Spirit  said,  "Not  so; 

Speak  it  not,  or  speak  it  low; 

Name  not  lightly  to  be  said, 

Gift  too  precious  to  be  prayed, 


516  POEMS      OF      EMERSON 

Passion  not  to  be  expressed 
But  by  heaving  of  the  breast: 
Yet, — wouldst   thou   the   mountain  find 
Where  this  deity  is  shrined, 
Who  gives  to  seas  and  sunset  skies 
Their  unspent  beauty  of  surprise, 
A.nd,  when  it  lists  him,  waken  can 
Brute  or  savage  into  man; 
Or,  if  in  thy  heart  he  shine, 
Blends  the  starry  fates  with  thine, 
Draws  angels  nigh  to  dwell  with  thee, 
And  makes  thy  thoughts  archangels  be; 
Freedom's  secret  wilt  thou  know? — 
Counsel  not  with  flesh  and  blood; 
Loiter  not  for  cloak  or  food; 
Right  thou  feelest,  rush  to  do." 


ODE  SUNG  IN  THE  TOWN  HALL 

CONCORD,   JULY   4,    1857 

0  TENDERLY  the  haughty  day 

Fills  his  blue  urn  with  fire; 
One  morn  is  in  the  taighty  heaven, 

And  one  in  our  desire. 

The  cannon  booms  from  town  to  town, 

Our  pulses  are  not  less, 
The  joy-bells  chime  their  tidings  down, 

Which  children's  voices  bless. 

For  He  that  flung  the  broad  blue  fold 

O'er-mantling  land  and  sea, 
One  third  part  of  the  sky  unrolled 

For  the  banner  of  the  free. 

The  men  are  ripe  of  Saxon  kind 
To  build  an  equal  state,, — 


POEMS   OF   EMERSON  517. 

To  take  the  statute  from  the  mind, 
And  make  of  duty  fate. 

United  States!  the  ages  plead, — 

Present  and  Past  in  under-song, — 
Go  put  your  creed  into  your  deed, 

Nor  speak  with   double  tongue. 

For  sea  and  land  don't  understand, 

Nor  skies  without  a  frown 
See  rights  for  which  the  one  hand  fights 

By  the  other  cloven  down. 

Be  just  at  home;  then  write  your  scroll 

Of  honor  o'er  the  sea, 
And  bid  the  broad  Atlantic  roll, 

A  ferry  of  the  free. 

And,  henceforth,  there  shall  be  no  chain, 

Save  underneath  the  sea 
The  wires  shall  murmur  through  the  main 

Sweet  songs  of  LIBERTY. 

The  conscious  stars  accord  above, 

The  waters  wild  below, 
And  under,  through  the  cable  wove, 

Her  fiery  errands  go. 

For  He  that  worketh  high  and  wise, 

Nor  pauses  in  his  plan, 
Will  take  the  sun  out  of  the  skies 

Ere  freedom  out  of  man. 


BOSTON  HYMN 

READ  IN   MUSIC    HALL,   JANUARY    1,    1863 

THE  word  of  the  Lord  by  night 
To  the  watching  Pilgrims  came, 


518  POEMS   OF   EMERSON 

As  they  sat  by  the  seaside, 
And  filled  their  hearts  with  flame. 

God  said,  I  am  tired  of  kings, 
I  suffer  them  no  more; 
Up  to  my  ear  the  morning  brings 
The  outrage  of  the  poor. 

Think  ye  I  made  this  ball 

A  field  for  havoc  and  war, 

Where  tyrants  great  and  tyrants  small 

Might  harry  the  weak  and  poor? 

My  angel,  his  name  is  Freedom, — 
Choose  him  to  be  your  king; 
He  shall  cut  pathways  east  and  west, 
And  fend  you  with  his  wing. 

Lo!  I  uncover  the  land 
Which  I  hid  of  old  time  in  the  West, 
As  the  sculptor  uncovers  the  statue 
When  he  has  wrought  his  best; 

I  show  Columbia,  of  the  rocks 
Which  dip  their  foot  in  the  seas, 
And  soar  to  the  air-borne  flocks 
Of  clouds,  and  the  boreal  fleece. 

I  will  divide  my  goods; 
Call  hi  the  wretch  and  slave: 
None  shall  rule  but  the  humble, 
And  none  but  Toil  shall  have. 

I  will  have  never  a  noble, 
No  lineage  counted  great; 
Fishers  and  choppers  and  ploughmen 
Shall  constitute  a  state. 

Go,  cut  down  trees  in  the  forest, 
And  tnm  the  straightest  boughs: 


POEMS   OF   EMERSON  519 

Cut  down  the  trees  in  the  forest, 
And  build  me  a  wooden  house. 

Call  the  people  together, 
The  young  men  and  the  sires, 
The  digger  in  the  harvest  field, 
Hireling,  and  him  that  hires; 

And  here  in  a  pine  state-house 
They  shall  choose  men  to  rule 
In  every  needful  faculty, 
In  church,  and  state,  and  school. 

Lo,  now !  if  these  poor  men 
Can  govern  the  land  and  sea, 
And  make  just  laws  below  the  sun, 
As  planets  faithful  be. 

And  ye  shall  succor  men; 

'Tis  nobleness  to  serve; 

Help  them  who  cannot  help  again: 

Beware  from  right  to  swerve. 

I  break  your  bonds  and  masterships, 
And  I  unchain  the  slave: 
Free  be  his  heart  and  hand  henceforth 
As  wind  and  wandering  wave. 

I  cause  from  every  creature 
His  proper  good  to  flow: 
As  much  as  he  is  and  doeth, 
So  much  he  shall  bestow. 

But  laying  hands  on  another 
To  coin  his  labor  and  sweat, 
He  goes  in  pawn  to  his  victim 
For  eternal  years  in  debt. 

To-day  unbind  the  captive 
So  only  are  ye  unbound; 


520  POEMS   OF   EMERSON 

Lift  up  a  people  from  the  dust, 
Trump  of  their  rescue,  sound! 

Pay  ransom  to  the  owner, 

And  fill  the  bag  to  the  brim. 

Who  is  the  owner?    The  slave  is  owner, 

And  ever 'was.    Pay  him. 

0  North!  give  him  beauty  for  rags, 
And  honor,  0  South!  for  his  shame; 
Nevada!  coin  thy  golden  crags 
With  Freedom's  image  and  name. 

Up!  and  the  dusky  race 
That  sat  in  darkness  long, — 
Be  swift  their  feet  as  antelopes, 
And  as  behemoth  strong. 

Come,  East  and  West  and  North, 
By  races,  as  snow-flakes, 
And  carry  my  purpose  forth, 
Which  neither  halts  nor  shakes. 

My  will  fulfilled  shall  be, 
For,  in  daylight  or  in  dark, 
My  thunderbolt  has  eyes  to  see 
His  way  home  to  the  mark. 


From:   VOLUNTARIES 

IN  an  age  of  fops  and  toys, 

Wanting  wisdom,  void  of  right, 

Who  shall  nerve  heroic  boys 

To  hazard  all  in  Freedom's  fight, — 

Break  sharply  off  their  jolly  games, 

Forsake  their  comrades  gay, 

And  quit  proud  homes  and  youthful  dames, 

For  famine,  toil,  and  fray? 


POEMS   OF   EMERSON  521 

Yet  on  the  nimble  air  benign 

Speed  nimbler  messages, 

That  waft  the  breath  of  grace  devine 

To  hearts  in  sloth  and  ease. 

So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust, 

So  near  is  God  to  man, 

When  Duty  whispers  low,  Thou  must 

The  youth  replies,  /  can. 

MUSKETAQUID 

BECAUSE  I  was  content  with  these  poor  fields, 
Low,   open  meads,   slender  and   sluggish  streams, 
And  found  a  home  in  haunts  which  others  scorned, 
The  partial  wood-gods  overpaid  my  love, 
And  granted  me  the  freedom  of  their  state,' 
And  in  their  secret  senate  have  prevailed 
With  the  dear,  dangerous  lords  that  rule  our  life, 
Made  moon  and  planets  parties  to  their  bond, 
And  through  my  rock-like,  solitary  wont 
Shot  million  rays  of  thought  and  tenderness. 
For  me,  in  showers,  in  sweeping  showers,  the  spring 
Visits  the  valley; — break  away  the  clouds, — 
I  bathe  in  the  morn's  soft  and  silvered  air, 
And  loiter  willing  by  yon  loitering  stream. 
Sparrows  far  off,  and  nearer,  April's  bird, 
Blue-coated, — flying  before  from  tree  to  tree, 
Courageous,  sing  a  delicate  overture 
To  lead  the  tardy  concert  of  the  year. 
Onward  and  nearer  rides  the  sun  of  May; 
And  wide  around,  the  marriage  of  the  plants 
Is  sweetly  solemnized.    Then  flows  amain 
The  surge  of  summer's  beauty;  dell  and  crag, 
Hollow  and  lake,  hill-side,  and  pine  arcade, 
Are  touched  with  genius.    Yonder  ragged  cliff 
Has  thousand  faces  in  a  thousand  hours. 

Beneath  low  hills,  in  the  broad  interval 
Through  which  at  will  our  Indian  rivulet 
Winds  mindful  still  of  sannup  and  of  squaw, 


522  POEMS   OF   EMERSON 

Whose  pipe  and  arrow  oft  the  plough  unburies, 
Here  in  pine  houses  built  of  new  fallen  trees, 
Supplanters  of  the  tribe,  the  farmers  dwell. 
Traveller,  to  thee,  perchance,  a  tedious  road, 
Or,  it  may  be,  a  picture;  to  these  men, 
The  landscape  is  an  armory  of  powers, 
Which,  one  by  one,  they  know  to  draw  and  use. 
They  harness  beast,  bird,  insect,  to  their  work; 
They  prove  the  virtues  of  each  bed  of  rock, 
And,  like  the  chemist  'mid  his  loaded  jars, 
Draw  from  each  stratum  its  adapted  use 
To  drug  their  crops  or  weapon  their  arts  withal. 
They  turn  the  frost  upon  their  chemic  heap, 
They  set  the  wind  to  winnow  pulse  and  grain, 
They  thank  the  spring-flood  for  its  fertile  slime, 
And,  on  cheap  summit-levels  of  the  snow, 
Slide  with  the  sledge  to  inaccessible  woods 
O'er  meadows  bottomless.    So,  year  by  year, 
They  fight  the  elements  with  elements, 
(That  one  would  say,  meadow  and  forest  walked, 
Transmuted  in  these  men  to  rule  their  like,) 
And  by  the  order  in  the  field  disclose 
The  order  regnant  in  the  yeoman's  brain. 

What  these  strong  masters  wrote  at  large  in  miles, 

I  followed  in  small  copy  in  my  acre; 

For  there's  no  rood  has  not  a  star  above  it; 

The  cordial  quality  of  pear  or  plum 

Ascends  as  gladly  in  a  single  tree 

As  in  broad  orchards  resonant  with  bees; 

And  every  atom  poises  for  itself, 

And  for  the  whole.    The  gentle  deities 

Showed  me  the  lore  of  colors  and  of  sounds, 

The  innumerable  tenements  of  beauty, 

The  miracle  of  generative  force, 

Far-reaching  concords  of  astronomy 

Felt  in  the  plants,  and  in  the  punctual  birds; 

Better,  the  linked  purpose  of  the  whole, 

And,  chiefest  prize,  found  I  true  liberty 


POEMS   OF   EMERSON  523 

In  the  glad  home  plain-dealing  nature  gave. 

The  polite  found  me  impolite;  the  great 

Would  mortify  me,  but  in  vain;   for  still 

I  am  a  willow  of  the  wilderness, 

Loving  the  wind  that  bent  me.    All  my  hurts 

My  garden  spade  can  heal.    A  woodland  walk, 

A  quest  of  river-grapes,  a  mocking  thrush, 

A  wild-rose,  or  rock-loving  columbine, 

Salve  my  worst  wounds. 

For  thus  the  wood-gods  murmured  in  my  ear: 

"Dost  love  our  manners?    Canst  thou  silent  lie? 

Canst  thou,  thy  pride  forgot,  like  nature  pass 

Into  the  winter  night's  extinguished  mood? 

Canst  thou  shine  now,  then  darkle, 

And  being  latent  feel  thyself  no  less? 

As,  when  the  all-worshipped  moon  attracts  the  eye 

The  river,  hill,  stems,  foliage,  are  obscure, 

Yet  envies  none,  none  are  unenviable." 


THE   TEST 

(Musa  loquitur) 

I  hung  my  verses  in  the  wind, 

Time  and  tide  their  faults  may  find. 

All  were  winnowed  through  and  through, 

Five  lines  lasted  sound  and  true; 

Five  were  smelted  in  a  pot 

Than  the  South  more  fierce  and  hot; 

These  the  siroc  could  not  melt, 

Fire  their  fiercer  flaming  felt, 

And  the  meaning  was  more  white 

Than  July's  meridian  light. 

Sunshine  cannot  bleach  the  snow, 

Nor  time  unmake  what  poets  know. 

Have  you  eyes  to  find  the  five 

Which  five  hundred  did  survive? 


524  POEMS   OF   EMERSON 


FORERUNNERS 

LONG  I  followed  happy  guides, 

I  could  never  reach  their  sides; 

Their  step  is  forth,  and,  ere  the  day 

Breaks  up  their  leaguer,  and  away. 

Keen  my  sense,  my  heart  was  young, 

Right  good-will  my  sinews  strung, 

But  no  speed  of  mine  avails 

To  hunt  upon  their  shining  trails. 

On  and  away,  their  hasting  feet 

Make  the  morning  proud  and  sweet; 

Flowers  they  strew, — I  catch  the  scent; 

Or  tone  of  silver  instrument 

Leaves  on  the  wind  melodious  trace; 

Yet  I  could  never  see  their  face. 

On  eastern  hills  I  see  their  smokes, 

Mixed  with  mist  by  distant  lochs. 

I  met  many  travellers 

Who  the  road  had  surely  kept; 

They  saw  not  my  fine  revellers, — 

These  had  crossed  them  while  they  slept, 

Some  had  heard  their  fair  report, 

In  the  country  or  the  court. 

Fleetest  couriers  alive 

Never  yet  could  once  arrive, 

As  they  went  or  they  returned, 

At  the  house  where  these  sojourned. 

Sometimes  their  strong  speed  they  slacken, 

Though  they  are  not  overtaken; 

In  sleep  their  jubilant  troop  is  near, — 

I  tuneful  voices  overhear; 

It  may  be  in  wood  or  waste, — 

At  unawares  'tis  come  and  past. 

Their  near  camp  my  spirit  knows 

By  signs  gracious  as  rainbows. 


POEMS   OF  EMERSON  525 

I  thenceforward,  and  long  after, 
Listen  for  their  harp-like  laughter, 
And  carry  in  my  heart,  for  days, 
Peace  that  hallows  rudest  ways. 


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